six feet {down} and I'm still falling - Day Two

[florentine, d4b ❁]

KLAUS GORAVICH

[/center]

♕ DISTRICT THREE ♕

[/b]

For somebody so bright, you're awfully stupid.

[/color]

"...AM I IN TOO DEEP, HAVE I LOST MY MIND?"

[/center][/b][/color]

"'I DON'T CARE, YOU'RE HERE TONIGHT."

[/center][/b][/color]

Klaus smiles as he enters the palm forest, for it is beautiful. Beautiful and cool and shadowy and oh-so-dangerous. Sickeningly dangerous. A place so bountiful in an arena so like paradise can only mean hundred of dangers hidden behind the places Klaus cannot see. He knows this, and he glances about himself with a dazed kind of confidence, looking for threats. He is okay, though. Because he is Klaus and everybody knows exactly who Klaus is and now he can fight. It will still hurt and he might still cry but he is strong enough to walk and move his arms so he is strong enough to fight. The boy who was never brave can be brave knowing exactly who he is. And who he loves. And only the harsh cut of a weapon can take this from him. You hope with all you have that it will not. Not today - give the boy more time to get to know himself, to learn about the Klaus he suddenly can be. But of course you are simply watching his life on the screen, time seeping away through the hourglass. You can only watch as Klaus enters the luscious forest. His rucksack hangs limply over his slim shoulders, his armour is fitted to his body and awaiting an attack. He is ready. Because you can see in his eyes right now, even through the lens of the camera - if Klaus dies today he will still smile because he is happy.

. . . .

As I enter the forest I know what is coming, but I have my friends walking together around me and the world knowing me as I am. This is all I need to fight, so fight I will. I do not want to kill, I am not thirsting for blood in the way others might. I am no career. But I have a sword and I belong to the human race. And I want to see my family again. To see them smile and accept me as exactly who I am. Forgive me for my lies to myself and to them and to the world. And embrace me anyway. So when the first other tribute comes from the trees I only take a second to work out who it is (or rather, who it isn't) before my sword comes down upon them. I whisper my apologies although I know I did what any human would have done.



(Attacks Fawn with Rapier)

[dice=200+1000]

[3.5 damage - shallow cut on left bicep]

"'NOW WOULD YOU DIE, FOR THE ONE YOU LOVE?"[/color]

"'HOLD ME IN YOUR ARMS TONIGHT."

[/center][/b][/color]

Speaking
Thinking
Expression
Body
Headings

[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/size][/color][rand=08699166402220726762015844462439445863916049711406013407671824097633]

[rook]

p a n d o r a + w o o d a r d s

<sub>this is a call to arms
gather soldiers
time to go to war

this is a battle song
brothers and sisters
time to go to war</sub>

[/sub][/color]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

<sub>My first night was rough. Thankfully I’m now part of a group, an extra three pairs of eyes help to calm the nerves. Naturally Cyrus offered to stay guard the whole night, to which I smirked. He’s a good kid, I’ve learned, but too jumpy and pure. He’s so innocent and giving, he forgets that he needs to kill to survive. I’m thankful I didn’t kill him, I went with him, the right choice, so I tell myself. He reminds me of a more nervous version of my brother Rubik. Good morals, bad action-taker. Nonetheless, I said that he could watch for a few hours, whilst I would do the later shift.

The rest of our… Our alliance, I already know. They may not have known me as well, but I studied them both before the Games. Noreen I respect; she’s been through a lot, what with her baby twins coming out in the Capitol, and being pried away from her Husband. Plus she had twins, and I’m a twin… And Noreen most likely dying here means her twins will have no mother, very similar to me. Fawn is much more of a mystery. She’s quite basic and simple. Her personality is a quiet one and she leaves no defining impression. I don’t doubt she’d be decent in a fight, but she lacks determination. I’ve noticed she’s in a bad way too, so I wouldn’t be too surprised if she didn’t make it. Put it this way, she wouldn’t be getting any aid from me.
I need it for myself.

Who cares. I have three people who are covering my back, without them I would most likely have died yesterday. Without Cyrus, mostly, who decided to take me with him, as apposed to killing me. I decide they’re not bad people, not at all. A damnsight better than Moreno, or Harper. Didn’t Cyrus stand up to Jae at Elon’s ‘party’? I smile at the thought of shaky-Cyrus going face-to-face with District 1’s Career Tribute.

Sleep was broken, I spent the first part of the night at the base of a palm-tree, Noreen and Fawn curled near each-other just opposite me. I keep my distance at another tree. Cyrus was on watch, he tended to patrol around, clutching his Harpoon tightly. The same Harpoon that grazed my arm, which still hurts now. We all seem to value our weapons more than our lives, I slept clutching the perfectly crafted handle of my Rapier. I wanted a sword, the Gamemakers provided me with one.

Later in the night, Cyrus sat down between Noreen and Fawn, he became drowsier. At that point I took over, giving him a ruffle of the hair and letting him snuggle up with Noreen.
You’re not bad, Cyrus…
He bares a scary resemblance to my twin. Throughout my turn to patrol I still hovered my hand over the sheathed Rapier. I managed to pierce through my pocket with the sword to turn it into a handy sheath. It fits rather well and I was pleased with my intuition.

I patrolled for a few hours, only interrupted by the Anthem. Faces I knew, but didn’t care for. I was surprised to see Chloe’s face, my fellow District Eight failed to make it past Day 1. I consider it a loss, as she was all I had to remind me of home, but better someone else killed then me. I wait for Destiny’s face to come up, but it doesn’t. She’s made it through. The other Destiny, (Destiny Queens) didn’t make it, which surprises me as she looked decent in training. She can’t of gone down easy. I count the dead tributes in the night’s sky. Seven. Seven dead. That’s less than usual, which unnerves me. Seventeen remain, I try my best to name them, it kills time. There’s us: Fawn, Cyrus, Noreen and I. Then there’s the Careers: Jae, Elon, Walker and that kid who’s name I can never pronounce… Magh-lagh. There’s Klaus, there’s Stark and Dante… I think of Destiny briefly, she’s on my list, but who was she with in the Bloodbath? I think I saw Fitz with her. I struggle to remember any more faces at this time. Who cares, I’ll kill anyone who’s face is not an ally.

I feel no guilt as the final face fades, knowing that I’ve not harmed anyone yet. I’ve not caused any deaths, I’ve not tried to kill anyone. The most I’ve done is manage to punch Elon in the arm in those first few seconds of scrambling for weapons. I’ve not needed to use my delicate Rapier to claim a life. It’s sadistic, but I crave the feeling of slicing someone’s skin with it’s divine blade. The way I cut those dummies for the Gamemakers, I want to do that to my enemies.
And I have so many enemies.

The jungle really is a beautiful place. I wish Hope could see it, for real, not on a screen. She always loved nature, whereas I turned my nose up at her sketches of plants and animals. Rubik always said she was talented at art, but art is a distraction to me. How I was wrong about wildlife. The dark jungle is surreal, mysterious and inviting. Blue shades of trees dance in the gentle breeze, hiding predators and Careers, but I’m too lost in beauty to care.
Baby, I’m invincible here…

Glancing occasionally at Cyrus’ comfortable snuggle with his fellow Districtee and Noreen, I find myself a little jealous. What was it I said to Caesar Flickerman?
“I don’t love and I don’t make friends.”
The cold-hearted rogue, that was my persona. It was my persona because it’s true. I don’t make friends, these three are happy with each-other, I’m the outsider, the Sword. I’ve said nothing to any of them since Cyrus told the others that I would be joining them. I keep my persona if I want to keep my sponsors. Cyrus has befriended people he’s supposed to be killing. Maybe that’s why he’s made it this far unscathed. Me? My leg is gaping open and black, infected since yesterday and my arm isn’t much better. I’m limping again by morning, my first-aid skills of no use here. I was wrong, having friends doesn’t make you weak, it makes you unstoppable. The orange sunrise is now visible through the silhouettes of growth, I know it’s time to move. I know it’s time to interact. I speak to the first time to my comrades.

“Get up, losers. It’s morning!” I actually manage a cocky smile as I kick Cyrus’ foot, disturbing him from his too comfortable sleep. They do, none of them looking particularly pleased to see me. I can’t imagine I’m the best person to have in an alliance. None of them trust me, none of them really like me. I’m arrogant and unpredictable. I’m the lovable rogue that Caesar talked about, but in here I’m not so lovable.

I lead, even though Cyrus is our unspoken leader. Everyone knows he’s the one with the survival skills, when it’s time he’ll make the key decisions. I’m just the muscle, it’s natural that I scout ahead. For a while, everything’s okay. My infected leg is painful, but I limp through it with a minor wince. I could do with a sponsor right now, but I make do with nothing. The sky turns from orange to blue and I realize that leaving the forest isn’t wise.

I turn to the following of three, Cyrus at the back. I’m open my mouth to tell Noreen that we should stay put for now. The jungle is cover, thus it’s safety, plus there aren’t many creatures about that look dangerous. Yet I spot a creature more dangerous than anything I’ve seen here so far. Klaus Goravich. He’s a blur, he too has a Rapier equally as magnificent as mine and I detect a swordfight. He’s too fast, targeting Fawn and slashing her arm viciously with his weapon. I’m frozen.
“WATCH OUT!” I shout, drawing my weapon as I see more shadows darting through the trees. We’re under attack, we’re under attack and I have no idea what to do.</sub>

---

<sub>narrative
thoughts
personal speech
speech of others
singing

notes: Feels good to post, bro.
theme: “Vox Populi“ - 30 Seconds to Mars.</sub>

[L△LIA]

( P E N E L O P E C A L Y P S O L I B E R T I N E )

Look him in the eyes
There's no need to be scared
He's as powerless as you and me
Though his face is well worn and his clothes a bit torn
That don't mean that you shouldn't believe

The ocean is red. Never, in my sixteen years of life have a dreamt of a red ocean. It has been any number of impossible shades of gray, blue, green — flickering with sunlight yellows and moon shadow violets — but this is unlike any reflected sunset I have witnessed over the years. Waves sticky with blood, the currents are thicker than they have ever been and my lungs can't handle the new weight of the water. Even while lost in the tide of my own unconsciousness, I cannot escape my wrongs. Like a proper god, the sea will drown me in judgment and I —

— I wake with a vicious shriek tangled up in the tripwires of my vocal chords, nothing but silence breezing past my lips as I claw at my own throat without mercy. Scatterings of thin pink crescent marks bloom into life across my skin as my fingernails attempt to dig in deep enough to find release. Fitz is there to save me from myself, restraining me with his arms wrapped around me so tightly that the ocean concedes to the stronger force. I am incoherent within the slipshuffletrip of my own thoughts, dreams and waking nightmares blending together into an abstract series of tally marks. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven for the dead. One. Two for the harpoons. Three. Four for those fighting side by side in our war. Even in my outwardly babbling murmurs of abstract sound, a series of tiny whimpers strung together with a strained sort of keening, I know I'm counting backwards. In the Games, nothing counts up; everything counts down.

Flesh itching with sweat, sand, and blood, I pull away from Fitz and his watchful care taking. It's a slow series of prying fingers and shuffling footsteps, every tiny movement driven by a secret effort to feel natural and convince him that I am okay. Every breath I take is a lie and every flutter of eyelashes a synonym for sin. Deafened by the din, I was propelled by an automatic force yesterday, all necessity and pretended know-how. Today I am not the numbness of the future, but a fragment of the past who knows only memory. It's not images of horror that flicker through my mind, but sensations of feelings that are proclaiming their intentions of becoming familiar. I pick up my harpoon and it presses against the same skin as Nessie's hand when I would lace our fingers together, teasing me about how we are a kind of family now too. This deadly blade and I share blood and through it we are bonded for Eternity eternity.

When the others begin to walk, I follow, stuffing my boots into my rucksack and crossing the beach barefoot. With an eye patch carelessly covering one eye, half of the Arena feels shut out and so half of me has found a way back home. Sand slipping between my toes, I hardly notice as the ground begins to transform into a forest floor — I am too busy humming an old chantey my father would sing whenever he cleaned the windows or polished the counter tops in our family's pawn shop. The notes rise into the air in a haphazard slur, off-key and out of sync, yet soft enough to be intended only for the stuffed parrot tucked into the crook of my free arm.

"Oh, Sparrow —" I have named my tiny companion after entirely the wrong kind of bird, but exactly the right kind of pirate legend. "— spare me. Spare, oh! Spare, oh! Won't you please spare me home, Captain Sparrow?" Words clicking off my tongue in time with the soft snapping of twigs beneath my feet, I hold the parrot a little more tightly as my nonsensical gibberish threatens to turn into an honest sort of pleading. Captain Sparrow is stitched together from yellows and viridian teals and despite having spent yesterday overseeing the events that turned my dreams to red, he is crimson-free.

A rush of movement overtakes my reverie, my loose grip turning to a fist around my harpoon. The flesh of my palms are rippled with waves of tightened pink, pale burn scars from days when the burn of pain brought me salvation instead of... This. There is a girl whose skin runs redder than my dreams, thanks to Klaus, who is promising me that she will spare me nothing, if I will spare her nothing in return. She is both the ocean and its judgment. She is my silent scream and complete helplessness. She is a legend in the making and a song sung too quietly. She is the distance between all of us and everything we were and are about to be. Yet, she will be lost in the tide of me and I will carry this weight within me as more than a dream.

When he asks you your name
Says "brother we're all here in the same game"
You shrink back like he's a disease, yeah, you shake and you moan
You say "oh please take me home"
And the homeless all sing the reprise

[Penelope attacks Fawn with her harpoon]

[dice=200+3000]

[Shallow Cut on Left Thigh — 3.5 damage]

[rand=0314088083826133961116187584454366722655428382635793312635509077104]

[Stare]

I'll give you everything I am.
All my broken heartbeats
Until I know you understand.

My mother swims in and out of my dreams. In some, tendrils of darkness capture my arms, my legs, my face and my torso, and I watch her light fade and shrink into nothingness. In others I chase her laughter, only to be led straight to her cold, stone grave. In others still she is screaming and I run through our house, slamming open doors trying to find her. In the end, I spend most of my night lying awake, allowing grains of sand to become caught in my hair as I listen to the ocean's steady pulse of waves and stare up at the stars and the moon's opalescent glow. Everything is so quiet and peaceful, smelling of fruit and flowers and feeling like some sort of tropical escape. Somewhere far away, a bird calls, its voice clear and beautiful. The humidity in the air sticks to my skin, pooling atop stretches of white and sinking into my pores. The beauty of it all doesn't help, though.

Because I can still hear her voice riding on the wind.

At some point, I rise, leaning back on my palms and gazing out all around me. The first few rays of sunlight shoot up from the horizon, staining the sky amaranth and reflecting off the water into a million little twinkles, a thousand captured stars. The expanse of white sand is turned into vibrant colors, like a blank canvas painted by the colors of the wind and the sky, beaming soft peach and muted pink under the sun's gaze. The waves that whisper up upon the sand pose severe contract, reflecting back the color of frost that still lingers in the air though the sun is quickly thawing it. I drag my knees up to my chest and ensnare them in slight arms, resting my chin on the bony entangle of willowy limbs and gazing out over the water. The waves crash and rebuild, whisper and shout, push and pull, dragging in ragged rocks and returning smooth, refined ones. Could it really be that easy? Just dive into the surf and let the current push and pull you however it wishes, and be returned to life with all your jagged edges successfully rounded?

I don't glance back at my allies when I rise (I know what I'll find – silent forms who's gently rising chests are the only sign that they are even alive, no doubt tangled up in their own bedtime horrors), but instead breathe deeply, willing the sea to fill me with its peace and grand presence. It doesn't. I approach the licking water, digging my toes into the damp sand. Starbursts of emotion rise within me, quiet uncaught thoughts and ideas that swim around and around in my bloodstream but are unable to find a home anywhere but here and now. They will be gone in a moment, out of my grasp, abandoning to fight my own battles (my mother wanted me to be a hero, but I'm not – I am a warrior who has nothing to take pride in other than the blood on her hands). But I savor them now – the taste on my tongue is so sweet, even when I know it's absence will be bitter. I stand there for a long time, just watching the ocean dance for me. But the waves never touch my bare feet, rising and twisting away from them, away from me, as if I am toxic. Some kind of poison.

Maybe I am. After all, it seems I kill everything I touch.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The palm trees rise like inside out umbrellas, tall and thick trunks leading into leaves that form a bowl, as if it could be used to catch sunlight. I suppose that the world has awakened by now, and I should be listening to the sound of chattering tropical birds and rustling leaves, but instead all I find I can listen to is the silence of my obsidian soul. Once, it pulsed with life, something hot and boiling and radiating, but it has since hardened over into an onyx shell. It's cold to the touch but not lifeless – underneath, tortured heartbeats can still be felt, tiny pulses and vibrations in key points along the unyielding surface. Somewhere deep inside, I am still alive.

And when was it exactly that the magma cooled? After I had traced Eternity's grave into the sand beside her lifeless form? When I attacked that innocent tribute alongside my allies? When I tossed and turned in the sand, panting and finally snapping awake with my mother's name almost tumbling off my lips? I replay each moment in my head, analyzing every moment of weakness, but the data produced is contradicting and only concludes in confusion.

The movement of Klaus is sudden – one moment he is calm and quiet, and the next he is a blur of movement, all wide eyes and rippling muscles and then a slice of blood whipping out into the air. Penelope is next, her eyes just a bit more wild as she moves in for the kill. And I will follow, of course, because it is instinct and that is what I have always followed in the past. My hand flies to my waist to retrieve my weapon, closing around the handle, and then I hear it. A shout that ripples the air around us, breaking our lethal silence. A shout of warning and fear that spills from the lips of a stranger, but he is not so strange to me. Because I recognize that tune of vocal cords, that certain tone, and my eyes widen, breath captured in my throat before it has the chance to reach my lungs in a sudden gasp. Pan.

A flash of color, a spinning world. Dim lights, golden liquid, burning throat and tongue and mouth. A streak of scarlet that catches my attention, but not blood. No, scarlet has not yet become blood. This scarlet is the color of a wall decoration, something meant to be festive. Bliss is sweet as it swims through my veins, drinking in all of my pain and returning it as this kind of sunshine that is so warm. Warmth flows from another source, too, though. I can hear music that they can't, and we sway in time to it. He wraps his arms around me carefully, not caging me in but instead protecting me from a world too harsh for my own delicate soul. I remember it all so well.

It was the last time I ever felt safe.

I want to swear a thousand curses, but I can't think of that many, so instead I remain silent. I yank out my weapon, an axe of some sort, and gaze at my best friend Pandora for what seems like torturous hours, though it is probably only a hint of a moment, before raising my weapon high. Speaking forward but glancing at my allies, I keep my voice steady. “Do what you want, but just know that I will not attack the District Eight boy.”

And with that being said and heard by all, I spring forward in a blur of fury, fear, and ice cold numbness.

I wish we would just give up,
Because the best part is falling.
Call it anything but love.

[attacks Fawn with axe]
[dice=200+11000]
[Deep Gash on Right Calf, 8.0]

[rand=9839035470850477317847742661337386645204294422917672014594672636]

[cyrus]

-----
No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one's laughing at God
When they're starving or freezing or so very poor
-----

[/i][/center]

Protect us.[/i]

A whisper passed from Cyrus’ lips as he stood, hands holding his harpoon like some old-time fearsome warrior. He looked much like he was since the start—his little hat atop his head, his navy shorts a little muddier for wear after a fall—despite how very different he felt. The fighting had come and gone so quickly, he wanted very much for the night to stay forever. For when the sun crept from the horizon and darkness fell on the forest, it was just the four of them and the sounds of whatever mysterious wildlife was roaming around them. He’d brought them together—whether a fool’s errand or not—and now they were his to protect. They were his to save from the evils of the arena, come h—l or high water. And so he stood at guard then, wanting for the world to see that he was brave, but further, for him to taste the blade first if anyone happened to stumble upon their ragtag camp.

The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside quiet waters. He refreshes my soul.[/i]

Cyrus lowered his head toward the blunt end of his harpoon and closed his eyes. How he wished he could see the future for them. How he wished that he could protect them all from the evil that was certain to come, certain to invade their lives in the coming hours. He had told them that he was going to take the night watch because he felt—he felt that if he had brought them together, that he would give them a chance to rest their weary limbs and heavy eyelids. He had escaped day one with barely a scratch upon him, and so he felt an obligation to those sleeping soundly behind him that they would be protected. Fawn, the gentle girl from district six that had promised to protect him. Pandora, the boy that he had nearly killed in the bloodbath out of fear—he owed him his protection for the wrong that he had done. Nonnie, the good woman, the married woman, the woman with children: he would do his utmost to get her back to her children alive. She spoke earlier of him being like someone she knew—if he could be so honored as to be remembered after all this—and had broken down in sobs at it all.

Surely, your goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.[/i]

Cyrus scratched the sharp end of his harpoon against the muddy earth. Was he brave enough now? Was there enough in his heart to sustain him for as long as he needed, to go the distance and to wear a crown? He was no warrior—he doubted he would ever have any sponsors for his lack of will to kill—he’d had two chances to take down tributes, and instead he’d taken them in like the outcasts they’d been. And yet he was something of a leader now, taking on responsibility for watching over them and deciding where the camp should be. How much had he changed from that night when he’d been afraid of his own shadow? His blue eyes stared up toward the canopy, straining to see the heavens above. He could wonder when the anthem would play but pondered that perhaps day had not yet broke.

-----
No one laughs at God on the day they realize
That the last sight they'll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes
No one's laughing at God when they're saying their goodbyes
-----

[/i][/center]

Death had come and gone. It had wiped out seven lives, and in the span of a few moments, they would be forgotten. Would the other tributes care about their faces? Of the ones that they had brutally ripped from this world and tossed to the next? Cyrus could feel a prickle of anger rise in his chest. He couldn’t—he didn’t know how—to express the mixture of rage and sadness that weighed him down. He wanted to end all of this, to take his harpoon and smite those that were so eager to end the lives of all those around him. He knew that it meant taking the most precious gift of all from this world, but he could not forgive those who so mercilessly took others from this world. It made his head hurt as he thought about the games: he would have to kill to live just as the rest were doing. But did he have to kill them in cold blood? Could he fight and defend those he loved until the bitter end, until the time when he could strike them down for their sins?

For that was what they were doing. They were sinning. They were horrible, disgusting, foul sinners. They would lie, cheat, and steal to win this game, taking his most precious gift, life. And then there would be the repentance. The feeling of loathing, of being lower than low for what they’d done. Isn’t that what most victors felt? That pain of death in their hearts, after having to see and do terrible things. Sins that could not be washed away. Sins that could not be forgiven so easily. Even if done in ignorance, it was still lower than low. It was still unconscionable and unacceptable and Cyrus would not stand for it. He would live so that others would die—not so that they would rip the life from his friends.

-----
But God can be funny
At a cocktail party when listening to a good God-themed joke, or
Or when the crazies say He hates us
And they get so red in the head you think they're 'bout to choke
-----

[/i][/center]

He stared up at the stars and sighed. Even if he protected them, he would still have to choose. He would still have to choose out of all of them who would live and who would die. And he knew that part of him very much wanted to go home. Part of him wanted to see his brother’s face again, and to hear his mother’s laugh… and to get to look for Tatum. For the chance to show her that he had been brave, and that he had been true. He could run away with her—perhaps disappear? The boy’s head was filled with foolish dreams that swept around him as his eyelids grew heavy. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to stay awake much long and moved to the little clearing where the others had been sleeping.

He grunted and poked at Pandora, whispering that it was his turn—he had offered to go next if Cyrus grew too weary—and slumped himself down, still clutching the cold metal of the harpoon against his chest. He slid against the others, looking over at Nonnie and Fawn, wanting one last happy sight before waking, in case he never woke up at all. It wasn’t more than a few moments that he felt his head swimming. Faded grays slipped past his eyes and at once he knew that he was dreaming, pushing through a strange vision that wasn’t real but altogether was something to distract him from the horrors he’d faced. It was a comforting vision—one of so many colors and warmth—he did not want it to ever end. He wanted to feel the colors as they danced around his hands and the warmth as he slid along this endless world of black. Am I already dead? Is this heaven? Have I gone on in my sleep to the world above?[/i]

Get up, losers! It's morning!

The always affectionate voice of Pandora startled Cyrus as he jerked awake from his sleep. He was weary and tired, and his stomach was grumbling. He would have to eat some of the berries he collected yesterday, though not before he could collect enough for everyone else. That would be a task for the morning. He looked to Fawn and Nonnie, briefly flashing them a smile as he stretched out his long limbs and made his way behind Pandora with his harpoon. The gentle throb of anxiety still sat in his stomach, but with the others around him he still felt safe. Perhaps we can make it through this after—[/i]

And then there was the screams, the terrible frightening screams that he remembered from the day before. Cyrus threw himself down to the ground as Pandora yelled Watch Out[/i]. He saw the sickening face of a boy swipe at Fawn, then the others, and Cyrus lay on his side, clutching his harpoon, frozen in terror.

-----
No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
No one's laughing at God
We're all laughing with God
-----

[/i][/center]

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

[angel4030]

Action: 990000
Speech: CC6666
Thoughts: CC6600

Fawn Raiys
~ What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger ~
~ Stand a little taller ~
~Doesn’t mean I’m lonely when I’m alone~.

Fawn laid down slowly, her eyes bouncing between the two newest editions to the alliance. Looking over Noreen, the District Ten girl she had barely interacted with, she felt as if the girl would not be one to stab her in the back literally while she slept. She remained closed off and wary about the District Ten girl, but Fawn trusted her more than their other companion. Eyeing the new boy, she could not help but narrow her gaze slightly. She had not interacted with him much, but from her observations, he was neither a weakling nor someone who was completely loyal or dependable under certain circumstances.

Note to self: sleep with one eye open she grumbled, not completely sure why Cyrus would ask Pandora to be in their alliance. Fawn, however, trusted her fellow District Six tribute enough not to argue and she certainly was not going to be the one to risk the alliance by making enemies with Pandora. Safety in numbers she sighed, realizing how wrong the statement would be as the Games progressed. Shaking her head, Fawn glanced at each of the other three before attempting to rest. She knew that with her injuries from the Bloodbath, she would not stand a chance if she did not rest and let them begin to heal through the night.

Lying quietly, Fawn let her eyes droop closed as her mind flew back home. She wondered if her brothers were all in bed yet, or if they were giving their grandmother a hard time about sleeping. They would have by now seen the anthem that played above Fawn’s head moments ago, announcing her accomplishment in surviving the first day, but also the looming danger of sixteen other tributes still alive. A shudder made its path down her body when she realized her family would have also seen her attack and behave like a monster.

No, I haven’t killed anyone, so therefore I’m not a monster. I’m not a monster, I just did what I needed to survive, but the thought did not reassure her as much as she hoped. The possibility of the next day haunted her entire being and nudged her back and forth, causing Fawn to toss uneasily under the swaying palm trees. Will I kill someone tomorrow? Or will I be the one lying dead in the vast grains? Fawn clutched her cutlass closer to her at the second possibility, but her fears slowly receded as the day’s events took their toll on her and the sound rustling palm leaves and dancing waves became faraway.

A groan slipped through Fawn’s lips at the sound of another voice announcing that it was morning. Unwillingly blinking back the night’s blissful haze, she gave Pandora a slight scowl, but part of her knew that he was right to get them up and moving. If we’re on the move, we have a better chance of avoiding the others. Of course, the Gamemakers will make sure that we don’t evade danger for long.

She soon found herself to be unfortunately correct when danger did find them. As they made their agonizingly slow trek through the forest, a sharp pain erupted through Fawn without warning. Her body worked quicker than her mind and she immediately positioned her cutlass just as yet more attacks fell upon her. Pushing back the pain that seared through each limb, Fawn sent a snap at Pandora, ”A little late with the warning!” Shaking her head and focusing on the intruders, she knew this was no time to be hostile with the newest member of the alliance. For all she knew, he or one of the others may make a move that may save her life. Or end it, dark reality pierced her body.

Clutching her cutlass, Fawn sucked in a breath to avoid letting out the cry that resounded in her mind. No, I won’t go down without a fight and I won’t let my dignity slip, she vowed. Fawn’s vow began to waver, however, when she eyed the enemies before her. I hope..

[laphae8ash]

I expected that I would have someone to help me when I got reaped, that the mentor we had would've given me some words of advice to help me in a time like this. Maybe a little mantra they used, maybe some sort of clue as to how to calm the non stop bubbles in my stomach...instead I had Mace. Mace Emberstatt, the one living Victor of District 10, who also is the brother of Elon Emberstatt. Meaning I had nothing! No one to tell me what to do, no one to lead me in the right directions, and now as I'm out here I have nothing to fall back on.

The tears well up in my eyes as I start trying to figure out what happened to Elon, so gentle and kind and even worse what happened to Haff. A few tears slid down my cheeks as I turn to look at Cyrus, "I couldn't find Haff. What if... Oh I should've kept looking. How could I be so horrible! Both Haff and Chole were just not there when I looked around but I should've stayed...I should've done more...right? I just didn't know what to do so I ran..." I feel like the failure for leaving them, just like how I left Scutcher in the backyard, but I know that I had to get out alive. Maybe I should go back and try to find them now that the dying seems to have died out, but would they even care? They'd probably just stab me in my back, just like this random kid that Cyrus has brought back and the injured girl in our small group.

Moving closer I wrap Cyrus and cry, "I can't believe I left them. I'm awful. I'm a horrible horrible person." Sure we're in a game where we're meant to kill each other, but I never want to come to that. I just don't know what to do. The boy I vaguely recognize as Pandora seems to be the one itching for killing, his eyes are wild as he towers over me, and right now I just don't know if I trust him.

As the sun starts to dim I sit near the other girl, I don't really look at her, or even ask her name, I'm scared she won't make it through the night and I don't want to be more emotionally connected to anyone than I already am. I see the girl close her eye and seemingly drift off but I can't just yet. My eyes follow Cyrus back and forth as I scoot a little closer. The anthem plays and I see that Chole has gone and the tears start streaming down my cheeks, but for now Haff is safe. I don't even know how to talk about Chole, in our few moments together we understood each other, but I think now maybe she's finally at peace. "Haff reminds me of my best friend at home. I think that's by it bothers me so much...I left him when he was hurt, just like Haff...His name was Scutcher, he was really special, like you...but I guess I'll never see him again either. I'm really going to miss him. I miss Jack too, and..." I bite down on my lip trying to push away the bad memories of the days before the reaping, and remember those of Scutcher and I in the garden with our flowers, blocking out the world, blocking out everything...but all I can see is the blood pouring out of him as Jack punched him harder and harder. I press my fists into my eyes trying to block the tears from escaping.

I leave everyone I care about to die. Scutcher. Jack. Joshua. Briar. Haff. Chole. All of them are better than me, and better off without me. I'm a coward. Cyrus doesn't need to hear this, but I need to get it off my chest. Not a word comes from his mouth, as I choke my sobs and pull my backpack under my head. I watch the other two silently rest as a let myself fall into a slumber filled with the never ending images of Briar and Joshua being taken away. There was nothing more in my life that could hurt me, when they left, I died. All that was here in this arena was a worthless shell of a body. My soul was with those two, tucked away in their heart of hearts.

During the night I know I heard faint movement, but no pain followed so I assumed it was just the boys changing guard. For some reason they told me I could sleep, that they would do it. I don't know if they thought I wasn't capable, but I appreciated it. I let my eyes follow Pandora, tracking him as he wandered around, I didn't dare move from my spot on the ground yet. I just wanted to watch him, see if there was anything about him that might make him more than just another weapon to help fend off the careers.

There's something in him that seems just as broken as the rest of our group, something that just doesn't quite fit the mold that his large frame and cocky walk try to give off. I'll probably never know him more than a few days, but there has to be something good inside. As I start to glance over to see if the other girl made it through the night I hear Pandora's heavy footsteps and clamp my eyes shut. "Wake up losers!" he calls and kicks Cyrus's foot. The words and actions make me scrunch my nose, maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe he is nothing but a big oaf.

Licking my lips I stretch my muscles realizing I feel much better than the day before. I try to flash a smile at Pandora hoping to stay on his good side, knowing that the sword he carries could just as easily spill my blood as someone elses. "Good morning to you too, Sunshine." I try to joke as I grab my stick sword thingy and pull my backpack on. Walking over I stand next to him and trying to get his attention I let my fingers brush his bare arm, as he seems too focused on the surroundings, I head to look around seeing if there is anywhere to go to hide."We should probably get a move on, if we stay in one place too long we're no better than sitting ducks." As I turn to look at him again he screams out a warning and I scream and fall to the sand. Its tiny granules pressing into my nose and mouth as I watch in shock as someone barrels through the bushes at us. I'm going to die. Here and now. I'm going to die.

[/blockquote][/blockquote]

[wimdy]

I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to sleep again. My eyes feel as if they have been sewed open, the pricking of pins on my eyelids keeping me at constant watch as the night went on. The dark rush of the waves behind us rocked my uneasy soul, each crash sending a shiver down to the base of my spine. The currents surged through my body, unsettling my stomach with their motions and sending me off to retch away from our makeshift camp more than once.

I could feel her dead eyes watching me from the skies, their milky gaze setting my nerves afire as I tried not to think of her. I’ve dealt with the bodies of the deceased more than once, more than the number of fingers on my hands and toes on my feet, and, it seems, more than there are stars in the skies that twinkle with radiant light above me. I’ve seen their death masks, felt their icy skin, pilfered their bodies seized within the irreversible grip of death. I’ve prayed for their damned souls, cried for their abandoned families. I’ve seen them every night since the first of their kind graced my eyesight, the ethereal regality haunting my every dream with long, spindly fingers and pale, flawless skin. For most of my life, I have been an agent of desecration and survival, desperate beyond help and poor beyond mend. In none of those years, however, had I been the agent of destruction, of ruin, of undertaking, of chaos, of death.

By the time that morning had come, I had found myself wound against Pen just as I had been the day prior, curled into her side and clinging to her as if life depended on it. It’s ironic because she’ll actually be the death of me, but I can’t bring myself to remove my arms from her waist, not when she starts thrashing about as if she’s drowning. Pen is the one who pulls away to get up and get ready, my body lying still against the sand for some time and trying to swallow the memory of it whole. I’ve slept on a beach with a girl. I suppose that should be some kind of accomplishment for life. I wonder if Noah is jealous for just a fraction of a second before I’m up and getting ready for the day myself. My body is acting of its own accord as I sling the flowered lei around my neck, remembering the tacky themed restaurant with hula girl back home. It was almost bad as the people who thought they were pirates of the high seas when really they were pier fishers. I look like a cross of them now, what with the dark purple bandana tied around my head to keep my hair from my eyes and the cummerbund wound around my middle, the lighter purple stained with the blood of fallen tributes. I almost want to throw up again, my stomach flipping at the mere thought of the past day.

When we enter the palm forest, all I can do is stare. It’s more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen, ripe and teeming with life, every inch of it popping with greenery and small animals. If I could live here forever in peace, I’d take it in a second. Dewy leaves wet my arms and shirt as we pass, my fingertips reaching out curiously to reciprocate their gentle greetings. I hardly even realize for a moment that my alliance has walked ahead of me, the sudden sounds of battle reaching my ears and knocking me backwards. My first instinct is to flee and I almost let my legs do as my reasoning commands, but I surge forward, trying to find my alliance again, fear for Pen thumping through my veins.

Graphics credits to the wonderful South<3

[florentine, d4b ❁]

KLAUS GORAVICH

[/center]

♕ DISTRICT THREE ♕

[/b]

For somebody so bright, you're awfully stupid.

[/color]

"...AM I IN TOO DEEP, HAVE I LOST MY MIND?"

[/center][/b][/color]

"'I DON'T CARE, YOU'RE HERE TONIGHT."

[/center][/b][/color]

Klaus is no longer smiling. Instead, his eyes are grave, serious... determined. You can almost see his thoughts; back when Jamarion and Marina and Tacara would gang up on little Lyana. And Klaus and Hopper would watch. This was what that was like. Wide eyed little boy watching his sister being attacked over and over again. But when Klaus was five years old he could just about manage to stutter some words of protest, of which Hopper could back him up on. And then the teasing would stop and Klaus would glow because he saved his sister, kind of. In his own fumbling, muttering, unsteady way. But this time he isn't just watching the girl - he is attacking her, too. The others were just watching, their eyes wide but seemingly frozen, unable to do anything but watch. And blow after blow lands on he helpless Fawn as she grew weaker and weaker. You can see in his eyes that he knows. Knows he could turn around and fight his friends for ganging up on the girl, and perhaps the frozen ones would join him. But if Klaus Goravich is to return home as he says he will, each and every person will have to die. The girl will have to die.

"Might as well be now."

. . . .

Is there really a difference between fighting with the intention of killing, and the killing in itself? Does it matter who dealt the final blow if you were prepared to be that person? No. Yes. I don't know. I am Klaus Goravich, and I am used to being the one people turn to for information. For that moral guide, for the truth, for the laws of the universe. I always knew. And now I don't know. But there are new questions, new evidence, new places and people and situations I cannot take in as fast as they happen. There are beauties here so great I am afraid to touch them, people more pure and unmarred than myself. But still I feel as though I have the loosest grasp on humanity, and perhaps if I had spent less time with my eyes between the pages of a book I would be able to predict the next move of those we fight. I have no idea what they are thinking and no idea why they do what they do. No way of knowing what I would do if I was in their situation, four on four, one of us getting pulverised. Would I fight, or would I let my friend slip away just like I always figured they would? But I cannot let the questions take hold of me and stop me from fighting. I promised Jamar I would not make a fool of myself, of my family, of him. Would not make him embarrassed to call himself the brother of Klaus Goravich, 61st Games Tribute. The one who died, yes. But the one who died himself[/i]. No lies, no mystery. Just Klaus. And although Jamarion might struggle with what I have told him, I do believe yesterday I was braver and stronge than I've ever been before. What shame is there in that?

(Attacks Fawn with Rapier)

[dice=200+1000]

[9.5 damage - severed left forearm at elbow]

[Klaus throws arm into rucksack and discards eyepatch]

"'NOW WOULD YOU DIE, FOR THE ONE YOU LOVE?"[/color]

"'HOLD ME IN YOUR ARMS TONIGHT."

[/center][/b][/color]

Speaking
Thinking
Expression
Body
Headings

[/blockquote][/blockquote][/justify][/size][/color][rand=1442062987480312604642414115369321527031278237700529706002376042306]

[rook]

p a n d o r a + w o o d a r d s

<sub>this is a call to arms
gather soldiers
time to go to war

this is a battle song
brothers and sisters
time to go to war</sub>

[/sub][/color]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

<sub>More shapes dashing through the morning canopy. All too fast and out of reach. Penelope's face is cruel and without mercy as she joins Klaus in swarming Fawn. She's gone. She's being ganged up on and I'm just stood here motionless. I'm the muscle. I'm the one who's meant to protect the others and I'm useless, useless, useless.

Cyrus is on the floor, as is Noreen. They're terrified and now looking at me for help. So that's my role... I'm going to die for people I don't even like. How selfish they are, if they let me fight their battles.
You're part of a team now. Their battles are your battles...
I grunt with realization and my hand is less shaky. It firmly grips the handle of my Rapier and I draw it in one swift motion. I eye Goravich and know that he's mine. My head buzzes and I locate the key arteries. His leg and his neck, both delicate and vital points of striking. I grin, I've been waiting for this.

But then another blur, Fawn's swarmed by two more figures. One is Fitz, who strikes my Ally mercilessly. The other is... The other is Destiny. And now I hesitate. Fawn's done for, next they'll come for Cyrus, Noreen and I. Defenseless Noreen and shaky Cyrus. I'm all that stands between.

“Do what you want, but just know that I will not attack the District Eight boy.” Rings Destiny's voice, harsh but soothing. It takes a second for me to register that Destiny isn't going for me. At least I'll be safe from her, but what of the rest of the enemy. As they finish off Fawn I stand over Cyrus and Noreen, my arms spread wide. I'm a barricade, turning from the Sword into the Shield. I glance down at Cyrus.
"Stay down and shut up..." I command, my arms still outstretched.

I'm crazy. I'm standing like a target, unmoving and open. Why am I doing this? Because I'll be damned if I let them kill a mother of twins, and Cyrus deserves a chance to get away. Fawn... She's led dying in the sand, it's too late to save her, but I feel like I wouldn't have tried if I could. I grit my teeth in frustration as I know any second they'll turn to us. I have to act instinctively.

Damn you, Destiny... I'd be all over them if not for her. If not for her statement that she would not attack me. How bold of her, to declare I'm a friend of hers. If she really valued my friendship, she'd call them off. She'd plea with them not to harm me, take me in as an ally. No. She simply states I'm not a target to her.
I'm not a threat to her... Her mind games are working and I feel even more vulnerable than before. What is this? Why do I feel so giddy when I need to focus? Why did my stomach leap at the sound of her voice? It's alien to me and I don't like it. I should feel nothing, that was my tactic... Yet I feel so much.

Happiness, she's alive. Anger, she's killing Fawn. Frustration, I can't attack in fear of hurting her. Sadness, I'm leaving myself open to protect Cyrus and Noreen. I block out all of these feelings and focus on 'being Pandora' once more. The cocky smile returns to me and I await the final blow to be struck on what was once Fawn. I wait for them to change targets, to face me.

Trust me on this, I'm a professional asshole.

"Do what you want, but just know that I will not attack the District Eight boy." I mimic in a high pitched voice, before smirking, "Surely I'm more than just a number to you, Destiny..." My tone becomes increasingly serious, I even take a confident step forwards, "But really, if they can do what they want, then I must mean nothing to you... So, by all means..." I throw my sword to Cyrus and move towards the group of enemies, arms outstretched. I'm mad, crazy... But utterly confident. I'm not doing this because I know she doesn't care... I'm doing it because I know she does. I whisper the final part: "Strike me down."

And watch the world burn around us.</sub>

---

<sub>narrative
thoughts
personal speech
speech of others
singing

notes: -
theme: “Vox Populi“ - 30 Seconds to Mars.</sub>

[Stare]

Do you think of me the way I think of you?
Do you hope for things most likely won't come true?
Do you dream of me like I dream of you?
Tell me darlin' please, tell me true

I take a single stumbling step away from our opponents, stung by Pandora's words. I stare at him with round eyes, letting all my hurt and fear and uncertainty shine through my lies for just a moment before burying them back under this wonderful facade I have created for myself. The blood on my weapon makes my stomache twist - in drawing away, it splattered onto my skin, and it sears where it touches. But I refuse to let any of it show through. I narrow my eyes dangerously at Pandora, my best friend, trying so very, very hard to see him as what he should be - just another tribute. Just one more person I need to take down if I want to win. "Don't try me, Pan," I mutter, stepping past my hesitating ally and glaring at him. "Patience isn't something I have in excess at the moment."

I don't attack him. I could never attack him. The other is so obviously dying that I know that just one more well placed blow will finish her off, so I might as well get it over with. My eyes flicker in surprise at this thought. Has it really become that simple so quickly? That taking a life is just another task on my to do list, no sweat and no hesitation? It is enough to stay my hand, though only for a split second, before my grip on the handle tightens again and my mouth forms a set line. Mother, you've raised me to be a killer. You've raised me to be a puppet. You've raised me to be a monster.

Because honestly, that's all heros really are.

[attacks Fawn with axe]
[dice=200+11000]
[miss, 0.0 damage]

My weapon misses her by a mile, and my eyes widen in disbelief. I could have finished her off - I could have won this battle and then fled far away from Pandora and his taunting words and gaze. It could have all been over. But instead... I missed. I give a howl of frustration, drawing away and narrowing my eyes at the way that Pandora still stands between myself and the two other targets, not that I'd attack them. Perhaps it is my own self frustration that makes me step toward him, eyes flashing. "That's it!" I mutter, raising my axe up high. It glints scarlet in the sunlight, and a single drop falls between his still form and my own trembling one - blood is the only thing that divides us. "You asked for it, Pan."

My teeth clench together and I focus my aim. I will not miss this time. I analyze him one last time for any hidden weapons, but see none. An easy target. An easy shot. My fingers clench tightly around the handle, and I narrow my eyes further at the boy who stands across from me. I erase all those memories of him making me laugh in the training center, of him protecting me from the world when we danced to our own music. Because Pandora is not a friend, he's not an ally, he's not even a person. He's just a number.

But Ripred, he's so much more than that.

The arm holding the axe collapses, dropping heavily by my side, and the weapon slips from my fingers back into my bag, where it belongs. I stare at Pandora until what feels like a second past eternity, my eyes wide and face full of conflicting emotions flickering across pale features. "I... I can't," I manage, my voice strangely choked. "Ripred, Pan, I can't." And in two steps, I have passed enemy lines, pressed past the invisible divides between us, ignoring the fact that any of them could kill me in this moment of weakness. In two simple steps, two heartbeats, two breaths, I have wrapped my arms around him and am clinging to him for dear life. I know that he could very easily pull out a knife and, quite literally, stab me in the back right now, and I can't believe how much I don't care. Instead, I press my forehead against his shoulder, every part of me shaking and eyes wide.

"I'm so sorry, Pan," I whisper, even though I'm not sure what specifically I'm apologizing for. "So, so sorry."

Do you wonder why we live and why we die?
Do you wonder why we laugh and why we cry?
Do you wonder why we dance and why we fall?
Tell me darlin' do you wonder these at all?

[/right][/color][/size][/blockquote][/justify][rand=13701210154513621127598820259900246963331191903756052202747151844864]

[cyrus]

-----
And the arms of the ocean are carrying me
And all this devotion was rushing out of me
In the crushes of heaven for a sinner like me
But the arms of the ocean delivered me
-----

[/color]

Could you forgive me, could you ever forgive me for who I am?[/i]

She was there, arm off, bleeding out, drenched in hatred of her enemies and probably afraid. She was surrounded by friends, but also beasts of death. He wanted to help her, to protect her from all that she faced. Yet Cyrus had failed her, he had been caught off guard, and now they were in dire straits. He was certain that this was the end of the one girl who he’d had to know—the one from his district, the one whose story that he had taken in on his own and learned. The one who had taken the time to promise that she would protect him from it all, even when the odds were so uncertain.

Why is it fair for them to take her life? Do they know her? Do they know who she is? Do they know her brothers? [/i]

They were ruthless in their decimation of Fawn. Even her arm was gone, taken by one of the other tributes like it was some bizarre plaything. What could possess someone to desecrate the most holy of things?. Cyrus could feel his head spinning as he stood to his feet. He was standing now, and he couldn’t see the world around him. No, instead he was rushing past a blurry form—Pandora, taking a brave stand to not attack them but to protect them—he would not stop Cyrus from what he had planned to do. He was happy enough that he had been right about this boy, even with his swagger, he was more a Panda bear than anything else. If they survived, he would have to give him the longest hug, with arms wrapped tight around him.

I was always ready to go first. I was always ready. I was ready to be the first. [/i]

His boots slopped against the muddy ground as he raced toward Fawn. Now was the time for the most courage, for more than he ever thought humanly possible to possess. He was too focused for the rest of the world to matter. He wanted to regret nothing, he wanted to second guess himself, he wanted to be afraid, for fear to grip his heart and for him to never be able to get the chance. But he would be true to himself and he would die in the way that he wanted—not cowering on the ground—and would save his friends from evil. For that was the whole reason that he had surrounded himself with those that he could trust, wasn’t it? He could be stronger in life surrounded by love than by hatred and fear.

You’ll be taken to his kingdom. You’ll be free from this. You won’t have lived in vain. [/i]

That was how life worked. They didn’t get to pick and choose just how things worked out. It made more sense to Cyrus now, more than the little Aspy had ever realized in his life, that they didn’t get to pick and choose the luck that they were given. Instead, they had to face each day with the courage to do what was right. And what was right was often harder to do than what was easy. That was the truest test of the world above: to live each day courageously, to live each day with hope in your heart and to have an earnest belief that people were good at heart, if you could only show them the way. For what was the point of living if one had to die in fear, alone and forgotten?

You won’t have been taken by those who didn’t see how wonderful you truly were. You will live on. You’ll never be forgotten. [/i]

He leaned in, his eyes closing as he looked down at her. Could he just end it? Not Cyrus, they would think, not the gentle boy that would swear to never hurt anyone. Not Cyrus, the boy of peace and of G-d, of hope and of life above all things. [/i] He should take her life before the vultures could finish the job. He would be sinning in the unfathomable way, taking the life of one that had been the sweetest to him of all. To one that he promised his utmost protection, and now he might stab a harpoon at her heart. But if that was what she so wanted, he would do it. Cyrus stood above her as though he was more angel than executioner.

”Deliver me.” [/b]

(Cyrus attacks and of course misses because, you know, his life is cursed)

[dice=200+3000]

They were the only words that he could speak from his lips as he swiped down at Fawn. But he could not say goodbye to her just yet. There was nothing about freedom. Just two words that hung in the air as he turned away, not wanting to do this just yet. His legs trembled as he pulled back from her. No, she would have to say, he could not just do this. He stood over her body, hands clutching his harpoon. Instead he would stay with her, until the end. His chest heaved up and down as he tried to steady himself. He would be brave now. He would protect all of them in this moment of confusion and ugliness. For now his friends would have a chance to run away without him, to mend themselves and to live another day. And all the evil that these children may bring against him was nothing to Cyrus. he wanted to stand guard over her until the end, even to help the others escape.

“Are you happy now?[/b]” Cyrus croaked out to not one of them in particular. He repeated himself, continuing, “Are you happy now? Is this enough for you? Is it enough, or do you want me too? You’ve already done enough evil for now—can’t you see that? Can’t you see…[/b]” His voice cracked as he said this. His poor hands shook holding his spear, and he had to shift his feet to settle himself again. He couldn’t look at Nonnie or Pandora then; he knew that these kids would land one more blow, that she would die and it would be over. Perhaps none of them would ever understand it.[/i]

-----
And it's over
And I'm going under
But I'm not giving up
I'm just giving in
-----

[/color]

(ooc: edited because... my postling wouldn't make much sense otherwise... yeah, I'm an idiot... should've done the second half of the post AFTER the result. So much for being the angel of mercy XD)
[/justify][/blockquote][/size][rand=6961030082311481645746234105899996188222384080295098282606340945]

[Lulu]

Alright, so I'm deleting Lalia's original post and she's going to repost now, at the end of the thread, because of all the confusion. That way no one has to rewrite their posts.

[/size]

[L△LIA]

( P E N E L O P E C A L Y P S O L I B E R T I N E )

Where you go so late said the knight on the road
I'm going to meet my god said the child as he stood
And he stood and he stood
And it was well that he stood
I'm going to meet my god said the child as he stood

There is an old saying about atheists in foxholes. My father was never a religious man, but I remember him saying it as a kind of comfort to people who would come into our family's pawn shop looking to trade in the last of their valuables for enough money to survive just one more day. It was as if he was saying: It's okay to believe in miracles when you have nothing else left. Hope is not something to feel ashamed of. It this way, their efforts for survival back home and my battles in this Arena are not so different. Only, I am beginning to realize that I am not so much the atheist as I am the foxhole.

Hope becomes trapped in me, as if I am wrapping it up in the space between my palm and my harpoon every time I gather its handle up within my fist in preparation for an attack. If the other children I encounter look me straight in the eyes, a moment of horror bounces back and forth across the distance of our bodies, crying out an inherent no no no, oh please, not me. I do not feel like a god in these moments. Instead, I just feel awful. Guilty. Without options. My silence whispers the same words back to them, pleading for my own soul, but after championing the Bloodbath, I doubt they hear it. We are the victors of a battle and in their minds we do not know terror, only terrorization. But I am sixteen, I think as I look at the girl dying before all of us, and I know nothing more of war than any of you. I am not a soldier, regardless of the foxhole we share.

When Destiny's voice splits the tension into awkward halves — "Do what you want, but just know that I will not attack the District Eight boy." — hesitation seizes me for aching moments that swallow even the time beyond her words. Her acknowledgment of recognition bothers me more than the blood. I'd dive back into my earlier nightmares rather than turn my gaze back to the Tributes we've encountered. I know them too. The girl who was being harassed by the Moreno boy just before I stole his whiskey and also the boy who was defending her at the time, they're both here. I recognize their faces. I remember the one Destiny was speaking with that night too and the realization of our interconnectedness is impossible to escape. I'm looking at Destiny, looking at the guy from District Eight, who's looking on and on, passing our gazes from one to the next as if we are playing a strange game of soul-tag and the loser isn't the first one tapped, but the last.

How will you go by land said the knight on the road
With a strong staff in my hand said the child as he stood
And he stood and he stood
And it was well that he stood
With a strong staff in my hand said the child as he stood

"Do what you want, but just know that I will not attack the District Eight boy." He is mimicking Destiny's words, turning them on her, and it draws my attention despite the way I'm internally begging myself not to look at him, at any of them. I can't help it though. Tag, you're it. "Surely I'm more than just a number to you, Destiny..." Despite drawling off, the way he says her name sears itself cleanly across my mind. We're not supposed to know each other, but we do. We do. "But really, if they can do what they want, then I must mean nothing to you... So, by all means..."

I'm trying to reign my expression in, to be what I'm supposed to be after the Bloodbath: Someone to be feared. Attempting to preserve the cruelty in my expression, I clench my jaw and raise my harpoon up in a flurry of contradicting emotions, hoping to rise up past them into the air that has always been perpetually above where the waters of my soul can reach. My hand is literally heartless up there. Only, he steps toward Destiny, unarmed and the opposite of supposed to be, and suddenly I am not the only foxhole. "Strike me down." We are all wrapped up in his open arms, hiding away in our own remnants of hope.

Destiny's words are soaring in the air around me, lifting me up as if they were a flock of small birds holding onto me by the slack of my clothing. This is helplessness. My harpoon falls from my hand, hitting the ground with a dull thud before rolling to a stop at Fitz's feet. As Destiny flings herself into the boy's taunting arms, I realize: My ally is hugging my enemy who is not my enemy. He is just a stupid teenage boy and I am an even stupider teenage girl who just —

How will you go by sea said the knight on the road
With a good boat underneath said the child as he stood
And he stood and he stood
And it was well that he stood
With a good boat underneath said the child as he stood

"Are you happy now?" The other boy croaks the words out after taking a swing at his own ally — the one we were attacking. The world is a blur beyond my understanding, layers upon layers of distant action that I cannot even begin to sort though right now. "Are you happy now? Is this enough for you? Is it enough, or do you want me too? You’ve already done enough evil for now—can’t you see that? Can’t you see…"

"No!" My face softens from the determination of a would-be (but never should-be) warrior into something fragile, but ever petulant. We aren't supposed to be friends, but we aren't supposed to be enemies either. We were never supposed to know each other. We had everything separating us before we came to this place, entire Districts, so why do we have to be brought together now? With a fluttering step, I put one foot in front of the other. "No." I whisper the reply once more, quiet and insistent as my voice cracks, vocal chords still worn raw from the silent shrieking that carried me into morning. "We're not happy." How could any of us possibly be happy here? Are you? I'm staring at the girl laying bloodied on the ground, dizzy from the contradictions of the lines being drawn between all of us. Tag. You're dead. Tag. Now that we've had our ending, let's not forget the beginning. Tag. Welcome to my foxhole, would you like a hug? "We're just sorry." My voice lessens to a degree where I feel like I'm merely mouthing the words.

With another step, my bare feet pushing into the earth in accordance with the unfathomable weight within me — yet completely incapable of steadying me — I flick my eye patch up so I can look at him unhindered. And it's not just about sight. Half-blinded, I am able to pretend I am half-home, but right now I want to be wholly here. I never feel as if I am completely present, my voice always sounding as if I am a little further away than where I am actually standing and my eyes rarely as sharp and focused as other's, but there is too much on the line these days. "I mean..." I am a sixteen-year-old girl wearing multiple layers of armor while clutching a stuffed parrot beneath one of my arms. My hair is a wild tangle of abandon and blood is flecked across skin, clothing, and everything I possess. It is without and within. "Happy?" Looking at the strange juxtaposition of the massacred girl and Destiny embracing the boy from Eight, all my foxhole hope goes twisting out my throat, flinging itself at him in a bout of desperation. That you would ask something like that — "How?" — does that mean there's no shame in hoping for miracles in a place like this?

I think I hear a bell said the knight on the road
It's ringing you to hell said the child as he stood
And he stood and he stood
And it was well that he stood
It's ringing you to hell said the child as he stood

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[Lulu]

Actually, moot point, Fawn is dead with a TD point placed on Cyrus's miss, kill goes to Klaus because he was the last one with a real hit.

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