It's the Price You Pay - 63rd Finale

[WT]

Sometime after the sun has risen but before the heat has kicked in, you wake to rustling. For some reason, you aren't too worried about the noise—until you open your eyes and see a herd of tiny white mutts picking at your items. Shouting angrily, you scramble to shove your remaining belongings out of the way. You put yourself between the items and the mutts and brandish your favored weapon, but they only stare at you dolefully. After a while you start to feel silly. When you lower your weapon they continue to stare, and you slowly edge toward your items so you can check to see what they actually took.

The moment you look away, they flee. With another shout you give chase. It's harder than you'd think; they're small but they're quick, and you're juggling the remainder of your inventory. You keep going anyway. It doesn't feel like you have a choice; you want every possible advantage as you head into the final stretch of the Games. Besides, they won't put up much resistance when you do catch up; what is there to lose?

They tire before you do and, as you expected, surrender your things with reluctance but no hostility. Then they vanish. You hold your breath as you put your back against a tree and peer through the foliage. Your weapon is in your hands before you've consciously registered that whatever is moving through the undergrowth is larger than the thieves, and something—instinct, dread, anticipation—makes your stomach churn. Wherever you are, whatever is waiting, you think you've reached the end of the line.

Congratulations on surviving to the finale, tributes! Pardon the Kodama peeking out from the trees; they won't bother you. They're peaceful creatures. Really. All they wanted was to stop the fighting; failing that, they're only waiting to carry away your dead respectfully. Worry more about your fellow tributes:

Cricket Antoinette: 0 damage
Stealth

River Destin: 1 damage
Stealth, Blades

Gypsi Keeni: 1.5 damage
Stealth

Pyrian Keeni: 0 damage
Stealth

Take as long as you need, but otherwise treat this as a normal fight. Good luck!

Let the end of the 63rd Hunger Games Begin!

[Deleted]

[bg=222222][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px] are you ready for another bad poem? one more off-key anthem, let your teeth sink in remember me as i was, not as i am and i said "i'll check in tomorrow if i don't wake up dead" i kept wishing she had blonde ambition and she’d let it go to my head When the beginning of the end comes, it's heralded by a horde of those odd-looking little white mutts, the same as the one that gave its life in vain to protect Ivy Soren a few seconds before I splashed her brain all over the grass. I jerk out of a fitful sleep to find a troupe of the things rooting through my backpack, making soft cooing sounds as they carry my items off into the undergrowth. With an infuriated squawk I scramble up, sword in hand and running after their elusive forms in the morning fog. "Hey, come back here, you stupid -" The vines and damp dirt squish under my feet as I run, the steamy heat of the morning making me feel like I'm running through something thicker than air, fighting through each ragged breath. I'm making enough noise to draw in every tribute in a mile radius, but with only four of us left in the Arena, they aren't likely to be anywhere close by. With every labored footstep, a sort of dreadful realization sinks into my bones - the Gamemakers will want to change that. The Capitol will be getting bored. So this is it. The beginning of the end. Me. Pyrian. Gypsy. Cricket. The last four standing, raging against the fading light of our own lives, in all likelihood about to be thrown together in one final, violent cataclysm. I can feel the compass whirling at it bounces against my chest, the needle struggling to point me in the right direction. There is no right direction anymore. There is only life and death and the set of demons that goes along with each, and I'm unsure of where to go. As I run, some sleep-deprived delusion makes me think that I can hear Fledger whispering in one ear, a quiet, patient murmur of you're almost there, Riv. Come to me. You've fought so hard. It's time to stop fighting now. And yet in the other ear, it almost seems I can hear Brooke, her laugh, her babbled sentences, the inherent joy in everything she does. There is always a choice. The diminutive mutts lead me past the very edges of where I've previously travelled, past gilded structures and through the bracken, splashing through the crystalline waters of the lake (the water's harsh embrace makes my heartbeat kick into a rapid-fire drumbeat, but they've taken everything I need to survive and it's not as though I can fight the end, anyway). They never get too far ahead, always staying just teasingly out of my reach the more I pursue them. It takes mother few minutes of ruthless pursuit before I'm able to grab one by the scruff of its neck, lifting it off the ground and snatching my water jug out of its little paws. "Give me back my stuff. Now, where did your little friends go?" And out of the forest, they come. Not the mutts, not any other Gamemaker traps, but three other human bodies, each chasing their own troupe of ghostly thieves. We all stammer to a halt at once, eyes locked on each other and hands on our weapons. Me. Pyrian. Gypsy. Cricket. So this is it. The beginning of the end. The compass stops skittering from its place against my sternum, but now the spinning needle has worked its way into the fabric of my soul, whirling around in a heartbeat-hurricane that blends with the conflicting calls of Fledger and Brooke in my head. This is what it's all been coming down to. The realization that I am the compass, my needle-blade spinning in an uncertain arc, trying to point me home. Instead, it points me right between Gypsy Keeni's ribs. [River attacks Gypsy Keeni with her longsword] [dice=200+1000] [Stabbed in Chest -- 9.5 damage] [+1 Blades] [Total -- 10.5 damage] we're all fighting growing old, oh, we're all fighting growing old in the hopes of a few minutes more to get on st. peter's list but you need to lower your standards because it's never getting any better than this

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[Lulu]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
you are a brick tied to me that's dragging me down
strike a match and i'll burn you to the ground
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

There are ways you can tell when a fire's dyin, even a long time before it actually does. See, fires sorta work in a cycle; once you start it it begins as a little spark, reachin' up slowly and climbin' higher, higher with each passin' minute until finally they're lickin' the sky, those flames. It will never reach higher than it does in that moment, if left unattended; it'll settle into a medium sort of blaze and then burn on for hours, but unless you feed it it's never gonna get that high again. Then it starts to slowly fade out; it'll start spittin' sparks like it's gettin' tired, and it'll shrink down and down till it's nothin' more than a pile of white-hot coals, gleamin' warm orange until finally it has no willpower to go on anymore and all you've got is ashes left. But if you know fire like I do, you can always tell when it's goin' out. And that's when you start gettin' ready.

That's how I knew when Owen died. I'd seen it comin' long before my last attack, when I saw how forced his movements were, how labored his breathin' as he tried desperately to kill one Keeni like he couldn't kill the other. But it hadn't been enough; his fire had gone out, and I'd watched him dyin' on the ground. "You owe me one, okay?" he'd said to me, before he died. And I wondered what he meant by it; what could I possibly give to him now, even if I did owe him one? So instead of responding I began to walk away to give the hovercraft room to come and lift his body, but not before I slipped his feet out of his blade-boots and took them for myself. Who knew, they might come in handy. And it seemed a shame to not get some use out of the death of my former ally. To seal the deal I dipped my fingers in the pool of blood that was spillin' out of his still chest and stroked them across my cheeks. War paint.

That night I slept fitful and pretty bad, a part of me knowin' all along that tomorrow's would be the last sunrise I saw in the arena. They wouldn't let us live another day. There were only how many left now? Four? Py's face hadn't been in the sky that night, and honestly it filled me with dread more than anyone; I'll admit it, I'd been hopin' that someone would've finished my helpless, deaf brother off so that I wouldn't have to be the one to do it tomorrow. But he was still out there somewhere, so I resigned myself to the fact that I hadda do what I hadda do. And maybe if I could shut down my mind enough I'd be able to convince myself that it wasn't Pyrian I was killin'. Yeah, right.

Day dawned and I found myself assaulted by strange white creatures; I gave a couple shouts as they assailed my items, and then all the sudden they ran away and I was left with nothin'. Angry, I let my feet carry me after them at a quick run, not really sure why I was even botherin' at this point. Across the dreaded snake pit, past the golden monuments that were crumblin' after days servin' as battlefields for tributes, I even forded through the shallow yet treacherous river to reach the other side. I was slow movin' in Owen's knife boots cause they were enormous on me, but somethin' made me keep them on my feet as I chased after the mutts. Couldn't bear to take 'em off. By that point I was pretty sure that these mutts were a trick of the Gamemakers, sent to lure us together. And sure enough, deep in the vines of the thick jungle, it happened.

The red-haired psychopath from Four was there, and so was the freaky rubber band thing from Two we'd stumbled upon a couple of times over the course of the Games. But the only one I had eyes for was Pyrian. There he was, emergin' from the vines with his head on a swivel, like always, because his eyes had to work double-time to make up for his useless ears. Suddenly I felt myself fill with anger, anger at the fact that he'd killed Asunder and made me defend him and kill my own ally, angry that he'd run away from me without a word, angry that I'd had to spend time that I could've used to aid my survival durin' these entire Games makin' sure he didn't get into trouble. My anger took control of me; with all the ferocity of the hottest fire, I sent my foot careenin' in the direction of my insolent brother, well aware that there were knives stickin' from the soles. Serves him right, the bastard.

[attacks Pyrian, kick with a knife boot]
[dice=200+2000]
[stabbed in hand 8]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
we are the jack o lanterns in july
setting fire to the sky
here, here comes this rising tide so come on
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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[L△LIA]

[bg=292226][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; border:1px solid #000000; opacity: 1;] this is why we fight, why we lie awake this is why we fight and when we die we will die with our arms unbound this is why we fight come hell I am haunted. Others here, they've had ghosts after them since the beginning. Tributes they've killed have left their hands stained with blood and their final screams echoing in their ears. Until now, despite the blood and filth coating me like the most vicious of armor or the pleading last words of those unwilling to accept their fates, I have not been so ruthlessly tormented. Unsettled memories called out to me in too-quiet moments, but this — 'Failed heaven up chronicle lion tacks.' Ten thousand stars beyond the Anthem's display sing with the voice of my sister, carrying her words to me from far away. She is in the shadows surrounding me, a familiar whisper in the dark. 'So griever mandate for ungratefully sewn triptych catch,' she says to me and I don't understand any more than I ever did back home, but maybe this time what she wants to say (and can't and never will) is important. "Halcyon —" I know she isn't here, yet her every breath is in the passing air. "— not now." But she continues as if this is her final chance and I don't want to hear that, but — 'Cut meager medicine got none beggar crane!' The harsh details of her voice are remembered more deeply in me than the deaths of these teenage strangers, but no less cruel. Each word is sick-sharp, brutally carving up the syllables until it sounds more like the clicking of insects than the nonsense speech of my brain-damaged sibling. 'Rivet grounded.' Maybe that's why I don't hear the mutts, unable to distinguish between the twin sounds of reality's most hatefully well-intentioned ghosts. Before realization can settle in, my satchel is being carried away by kodama. Chasing them into the sunrise, it seems every soul in existence knows that today is the last fight of my life. However, I'm not ready for these goodbyes. The beginning of the end is still the middle and until my final breath is hanging on my lips, I won't give in to condolences in the secret language of sister-speak that only Halcyon and I know. Until that moment, I won't admit to the way my sprinting footfalls thump thump thump like heartbeat morse code to the boy I left behind. I continue telling myself how none of it matters, even when something within me that is so desperately synonymous with denial begins to translate my footsteps into: She flickers in the night — thump thump thump — like a candle at it's peak, and I know that soon, I too will be nothing to her. That boy and I burned nights away together, back home in the circus tents of District Two, the phantom rasp of his voice narrating poetry and something else beyond my own naive comprehension as we stitched mirrored secrets into our memories. We may have been illusions to our audience, but never each other. Today is a new morning though and my head sways back and forth as I run, ever so gently swinging out a response of no, no, no. Whether my motions are refuting the pair of beloved ghosts nipping at my heels or if they're telling Halcyon not to worry and Zombie Boy that he has never been nothing (not nothing to me, no, no, no), I can't honestly say. They are simply my shadows — A shadow to her flame — 'Shadow upturned meadow spin north haze.' — I watch as moments of clarity jerk her strings like mad men, but seconds later the wind blows her, bowing, bent, jerking, down and she eats at herself, wastes away, makes sure of it. — no, no, no. The thieving mutts refuse to halt; today nothing will stop for me. I am the followed-follower and we all know exactly where I'm going, despite these little moments of pretend that tug at me as if any of this were important right now. I am headed for battle. It's too late to tell me you're afraid for me to die, it was always too late. I can't love you the same way I love this awful Arena; I don't have enough faith in that part of myself. I only ever wanted to move — bowing, bent, jerking, down — I was never looking for you; I was never trying to find — She searches for Him, to come take her but I don't think she understands. When the mutts have finally led me to my destination, my ghosts hold their breath. Halcyon, Zombie Boy, and the click-click-contradiction kodama all pause their assault and I discover a new meaning for missing. With the world so still, I ache, even for the awful heart-wrench of those I abandoned. For seven days I have thought only of myself, but these last moments... maybe they do not belong to me. Then a twig snaps and I remember that of course this moment is about more than me. In too many ways I am not the only one left. 'Reinvent weather,' my impossibly faraway sister whispers on the breath of a heatwave and I understand enough to know that the end has come and I will bring it. For me, there has never been tomorrow. It was always this one, inescapable moment and the confusion of trying to think beyond this is perhaps the only thing in this Arena I fear. As I pull the sharpened driftwood from my pack, laying it out in a circle around the preoccupied Tributes striking up a fight just beyond the next few trees, I vow to make certain that there is only now. Piling up whatever dangerously dry jungle debris I can find, the future becomes less and less of a question. I'll teach you all what it means to only know your own soul within a spotlight. You should understand. Please, Halcyon, don't hate me for this understand and — She searches for Him, to come take her but I don't think she understands. It's the sound of his voice in my head and in my blood and in all the missing parts of me coupled with my sister's sudden silence — I don't know what either of them mean — that accompany the crackle and burst of flames, as I transform a piece of driftwood into a flaming torch and set the remainders of our small world alight. A ring of fire rises up from the earth, shutting out the rest of the jungle as I walk into the only destiny I have ever known. As if to congratulate me on the achievement of my single-minded obsession, the final act in a performance the world could never have fathomed before I took this sacrificial stage, a small jar comes parachute-drifting down from the sky and into my hands. It's not that my ghosts mean nothing to me, but today I belong to more than family and the poetic hearts of men. (I don't think she understands. How it feels to not feel at all, and I was never a candle, just the puddle of wax at the bottom.) Time holds no more promises for me and so I can't tell if I'm walking or running, my feet twistturntricking towards the three Tributes I have bound to me within this hellfire spotlight. Cracking the jar open, I suck the almost-poison into my mouth and raise my torch to them as I exhale an apocalypse-cloud of flame. My very breath will turn the swarm of their tired butterfly-souls to ash and maybe in this way we will finally tumble together. Come now, I will teach you. Together we will redefine air. Yet, the thump thump thump of my footsteps continues to swear: I don't think she understands. But I swear that I do. Watching her dance tastes like living. My ghosts — don't you know? — it seems they've taught me just a little about the awfulness of that living. [Cricket Makes A Ring Of Fire // Receives & Uses Lighter Fluid // Breathes Fire] 1. River 2. Gypsy 3. Pyrian 4. River and Gypsy 5. River and Pyrian 6. Gypsy and Pyrian 7. River, Gypsy, and Pyrian [dice=7] [Pyrian]

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[Python]

Two familiar faces appeared in the skies that night.

Elodie Magpie, District 5

He liked to pretend that the sparkling canvas was their home, that maybe the stars were their free spirits watching from above rather than being imprisoned six feet underground where their corpses would surely lie. If he thought of death in this way, maybe the prospect of actually dying wouldn’t haunt him as he slept beneath the canopies of leaves. If his wild imaginings happened to be true (and he hoped for it), then Noah was somewhere up there watching him, right? And Pyrian would join him soon, along with the rest of the tributes that had died so gruesomely in battle. It was an exaggerated idea that left him feeling as if he were descending into madness, thinking of death like it was some ticket to paradise when it could mean absolutely nothing but darkness and nonexistence. Among the conflict of disbelief, though, it brought him a sense of feather light comfort. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to lull him to sleep after Owen Rook, District 7 flashed boldly after Elodie’s display. Finally, a victory had been bestowed upon this Keeni. He hadn’t been the one to dispose of Owen, but with all of the tributes concentrated in the Hall of Treasures - all but two - he knew who had been the one to slay the predator. He imagined Gypsy clad in her armor, flames kissing flesh as she cut through Owen’s defenses with deadly precision. She was undoubtedly one of the strongest fighters in the area, stronger than everyone in their alliance, himself included. She deserved to win more than anyone else, and he was going to make damn sure that she did after tonight.

He tossed and turned in his sleep, plagued by nightmares of blood and inevitable darkness. Death was lurking behind every tree and within every shadow of the night, but he didn’t know when it would come for him. It was merely hiding, stalking, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike him down, and he wasn’t sure if he would be ready when it did. Either way, Pyrian Keeni was not going to leave this arena with his life. He was going to sacrifice himself for Gypsy’s sake whether he liked it or not, because despite the pain he would endure and the mysteries of death that turned him icy to the core with fear he knew his heart couldn’t bear to continue beating if Gypsy were to perish for his own victory. As much as he wanted to return home and crawl into his bed to nurse his old wounds, he didn’t want to lose his sister. He was her partner in crime, and she was his only best friend. There was not a soul in the world he trusted more. She wanted the crown, that was evident enough with her fighting spirit and flaming eyes, so why take it away from her when she deserved nothing less? The severed bond would be painful at first, he imagined, but she would carry on. There were new friends to be made, and the Keenis were a large family. She could find new company to share and spread her chaos to the capitol with the artful wildfires they always dreamed of making. Besides, Gypsy was the one who didn’t live in a world of eternal silence. What use would it be for him to live, if Gypsy was the only person he could ever communicate with?

Sleep was no longer an option for the anxious boy. Instead of wasting his time squeezing his eyelids shut and hiding among blankets of leaves, he propped himself up against a tree and twirled one his knives absent-mindedly, eyes fixed on the dark skies. He drifted off a bit after a few hours, but it wasn’t enough to replenish his strength before the sun climbed over the horizon and burned through his pathetic shelter. Only four of us left. It was now or never. The Capitol was probably growing impatient, waiting for more blood to shed so their newest victor could rise above the others. Cricket, River, Gypsy, myself. If he wanted Gypsy to win he would have to kill River, or maybe Gypsy can take care of that. She’s strong enough. Cricket, however, was the deadliest threat of the two. With arms like serpents and a spine that could bend at any angle, she was capable of dicing tributes to bite-sized pieces using only a knife and her feet. She was also the only tribute with a perfect training score, and how she had done it was no rumor. She could swallow swords and breathe fire, like a one woman circus act. She would admittedly be a difficult tribute to kill, and she may as well be the death of him. But I still have to try. For Gypsy.

It took what felt like hours for Pyrian to end up in the exact area the Gamemakers wanted him to be. After chasing the little white mutts who had greedily stolen his items - the ones he had been saving for Gypsy, though with only four tributes left this might as well be the final day - he ended up on the other side of the river, an area he had never explored due to his inability to swim. This time, though, in a desperate last effort to reclaim his items he had clung to a large piece of driftwood and paddled his way to the other side where he caught up with the thieving bastards. His items were not the only things he found. Surrounded by a combusting ring of flames were three silhouettes that seemed to fade against the canvas of hot orange and red, and when he turned to look over his shoulder he realized that he, too, was trapped within its clutches. He wasn’t sure whether to call it home, or whether to call it Hell.. Either way, this was the final battle. Four tributes stood inside this makeshift ring of death, and Gypsy had to be crowned victor. Three would have to die if she was going to survive, and I‘m one of them.

When Gypsy started toward him - leaving an invisible trail of angry steam in her wake - he tried to sign an apology for acting without explaining himself properly. She was most likely puzzled and disgruntled about his impulsive actions the day of the feast, and he couldn’t blame her if she was pissed at him. He did not, however, anticipate the lash of her bladed boot (were those Owen’s?) The tip of the blade buried itself in the hand bearing his sword and he cried out from the shock of pain, staggering closer to the edge where the flames blazed hungrily. ”Why the hell did you do that?!” He had never cursed at his twin sister before, but it felt appropriate. He understood why she was angry with him, but there was no need to waste her time fighting him when he was going to risk his own damn life for her. He signed rapidly with only one hand, clutching the injured one to his chest as he gritted his teeth and grimaced from the pain. ”I’m trying to help you win! You’re supposed to attack them, not me!” Had she not realized it by now? That he was trying to protect her and not himself? ”You’re gonna let them kill you!”

Sure enough, a flash of red appeared among the flames as River lunged for the two of them, Cricket trailing not far behind. He already knew that Cricket was the most dangerous, so he quickly brandished his weapon and made a dash for her just as a stream of flames soared past her lips and launched at him like the devil’s tongue. He would welcome the heat of the flames any day, but he would not let her destroy Gypsy with their own weapon. So he let it come for him.

[attacks Cricket - Broadsword]
[dice=200+1000]
[Block -- 0.0 damage]

[fire damage from cricket's fire]
[dice=8]
[2 damage]

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[Deleted]

[bg=222222][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px] are you ready for another bad poem? one more off-key anthem, let your teeth sink in remember me as i was, not as i am and i said "i'll check in tomorrow if i don't wake up dead" i kept wishing she had blonde ambition and she’d let it go to my head The spell breaks in the form of a tide of sticky-hot crimson that paints itself over the gleaming surface of my blade, Gypsy Keeni's blood running over the steel until it washes over my hand, painting the white-knuckled pallor of my hand and slicking my grip on the hilt of the sword. My eyes widen in a way that might be comical if everything else weren't so horribly macabre, a gasp stuttering out of my throat as I stumble back. There's a wet, sickening sound as the metal slips away from the flesh, enough to make me sick, but my stomach has been empty for so long that the only result is my standing there, dry-heaving and horror-struck, the picture of an easy target. Unthinkingly, I drop my battle stance, the sword falling down to my side as I reach in Gypsy's direction, an apology starting to fall into the air. But then she turns, her knife sinking into Pyrian's skin, and the words die on my lips, replaced by a soundless scream caught between horror and rage. I am hopeless, a stone witness ten lifetimes of travesties, and yet the inevitability of all this death staring me in the face doesn't stop me from raging against it, taking a few faltering steps towards the twins from Six. "Stop it! STOP IT! He's your brother, you can't just -" But I stammer to a halt when the horrible realization hits that Gypsy can just, and there's nothing any of us could possibly do to stop her. In all reality, she's probably the only one here who's thinking like a Victor rather than a scared child. While it's awful and repulsive and wrong, there's a sort of bravery in her choice for self-preservation that I could never allow myself to have. Selflessness is more of a selfish enterprise than people would have you believe - more often than not, being able to sleep at night comes at the expense of others. You just end up doing your best not to think about it. If I've learned anything in this hell week, it's that ignorance is far from bliss. A brilliant flower of flame blooms from the corner of my vision, and I whirl around just in time to see a bundle of sinuous limbs and the very breath of Death erupt into the clearing. Smiling sadly, I turn to the side and offer the last member of our terrible little party a quirking, sad half-smile, memories of handstands and arrows swirling through my head. "I always had a feeling you'd end up here, Cricket. I just didn't think I would." And I didn't. Not at first. When I walked up on the stage at the Reaping, some deep, visceral part of me knew that I was going to my death. Now? Now, I'm not so sure anymore. The compass of my soul no longer has a North, caught between Fledger's open arms waiting just beyond the veil of Death and Brooke's waiting a million miles away in a home I thought I'd never see again. Nothing is certain. There's as much of a hope of me being the last one standing as there is certainty of me dying with my next breath. The only thing that's certain is that they're hurting Pyrian and the last spark of humanity left in me can't take it. He's the closest thing I have to Noah now, and I never could function without something to protect. It's with the selfish sort of selflessness that I raise my blade again, directing it towards Gypsy's bloodied form. Being able to sleep at night carries the same sort of burden as being able to sleep forever, and keeping the last spark of who I am is what I need to be able to accomplish either. [River attacks Gypsy Keeni with her longsword] [dice=200+1000] [Shallow Cut on Left Bicep -- 3.5 damage] [Dice Roll for RE] [dice=15] [5 damage] we're all fighting growing old, oh, we're all fighting growing old in the hopes of a few minutes more to get on st. peter's list but you need to lower your standards because it's never getting any better than this

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[Lulu]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
so we can take the world back from a heart attack
one maniac at a time we will take it back
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The bitch with the hair like fire sliced her sword across my skin twice, but I guess it served me right because I was too preoccupied with Pyrian; wasn't payin' enough attention to the rest of the fight. The first hurt the worst; it was the kind of searin' pain in my torso that woulda been prevented by the armor I'd worn the previous day, the armor that Owen had shredded to bits with his attacks but had kept me from dyin'. Come on, my subconscious told me angrily. Don't you wanna win? Don't you wanna be champion? You're going to have to pay closer attention. But I found all the willpower I'd had on previous days seepin' out of me fast, all too fast. Of all the times to lose my nerve.

Pyrian was outraged at my betrayal, and his fingers were movin' at top speed as he signed every thought that was runnin' through his head at me. My own brain was processing them just as fast, but I waited for him to finish his rant before I signed back. "I'm trying to help you win! You're supposed to attack them, not me!" I gave a short bark of laughter. You think I wanna let it come down to that, Py? You think I want it to come down to just me and you, alone in this godforsaken place with the entire fuckin' nation waiting for me to kill you? I was breathin' heavy now, which was funny because I didn't have to use any breath at all to speak to my brother. "You're gonna let them kill you!"

And that's when any dregs of nerve that had been left inside of me completely left, and I felt hollow and defeated for the very first time since I'd entered this arena. I'd been so sure, so so sure that the way to make myself happy was by winnin' these Games and goin' back home. But how was I supposed to ever be happy again if I'd left a part of me here, dead on the ground? What kinda life would I live after? Was I willin' to suffer that just for the fame and glory of victory? So what, Py? I let my fingers say slowly, much slower than the pace that this final showdown called for. So what if they kill me? Why don't we both die, so we can be together like we used to be?

[/color] Shakin' my head slowly back and forth in sorrow and regret, I could feel hot tears threatenin' to spill out over my cheeks but I held 'em back as best I could. I don't wanna do this anymore! Angrily I sent another kick his way, searchin' for some way to end the pain.

[attacks Pyrian, kick with a knife boot]
[dice=200+2000]
[stabbed in back 9.5]

That was when I saw the wall of fire descendin' on us. I looked around frantically for an explanation and saw the twisty girl from Two playin' with fire, even breathin' it at Pyrian like it was some kinda game. If there's one thing I learned from all my years spent beside the flames, it was that fire was not a toy. "What did you do?!" I spat at her, my eyes wide with alarm as I watched the flames lick both Pyrian and the other bitch and then come reachin' for me. I tried to duck out of the way, but it wasn't possible to avoid them altogether. [/blockquote]

[dice=15]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
you know time crawls on when you're waiting for the song to start
so dance alone to the beat of your heart
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

[/color]
[/size][/center] [/justify][rand=715691776713356463868067460134632777721614111215055218381341546774]

[L△LIA]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; height: 234px; border:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius-topleft: 40px; border-radius-topleft: 40px; -moz-border-radius-topright: 40px; border-radius-topright: 40px; opacity: 1;]

[bg=292226][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; border:1px solid #000000; opacity: 1;] quiet little voices c r e e p into my head i'm young a g a i n With this morning's memories tagging along and so heavy in my mind, I had forgotten about my other followers. It's not until I begin hearing a familiar kind of snap and crackle, small sparks in the air, that I realize the butterflies that have followed me since the Nakom fight are being incinerated by the flames I have set alight. A sharp gasp jolts out of me as I snap back from myself, my body in rewind, instinctively bringing the small torch I bear to my lips to be extinguished. However, the damage I've done can't be swallowed the same as fire and there is a moment of fierce heat within my mouth that tastes of regret in a way I haven't felt for the other lives I've laid to rest in this Arena. The survivors are few, mostly turned to scattered ashes in the wind and technicolor debris on the jungle floor, but the ones who remain still beg for the brethren corpses of the Nakom tangled in my hair. Their swooping is frantic in the aftermath and through their refusal to leave this destruction that never had to be theirs, I seem to know myself a little better. We are here by choice and these deaths will be our own. We owe no apologies, not to ourselves or the ones who might be sorry to see us go, because — 'Gravity house antithesis!' My ghost of a sister argues with my thoughts in such an aching, bellowing screech that I can translate her tone even if her nonsense words escape me. I hear the 'I hate you!' in her distant trembling so clearly, feeling the clatter as she throws something at the television screen, because that's as close as she can get to me now and not simply because she always aspired to be the one to defeat me. Only not like this. Despite my own dreams, Halcyon's jealousy never wanted me taken down by death. But that, my sweet and vicious sister, is not your choice. It's mine; it's the butterflies. Dropping the charred driftwood from my hand, the fluttering blade of my knife is released with a flick of my wrist. It dances through my fingers — watching her dance tastes like living — and I move with it as if by extension. Steel promises. Requiem daydreams. Momentum for taking. It's not until I hear one girl yell at the other that I realize what's happening beyond my own concerns. "Stop it! STOP IT! He's your brother, you can't just —" For the first time since coming here, I am struck with the hesitance of shock. My sister's violently loving voice echoing in my mind, there is a flicker of horror that even my selfish heart can't quite comprehend. Coming here was my choice just the same as the idea of sacrificing myself for the sake of the Games performance is, but as the girl before us lashes out at her own sibling, my certainty is not so concrete that I could sacrifice Halcyon for all of this. Then again... didn't I? Abandonment is perhaps not such a different sin. At least she has the guts to break herself away from the ones she loves face-to-face. Flipping into a backwards handspring, my knife soaring into the air, I find myself turned upside-down in more than one way. He is her Halcyon. That involuntary aching from the run here begins gnawing at my bones once more, cracks in my illusions that all of this is nothing but a stage show. I am learning too late that there are stakes here and not only for these siblings gone awry. Their madness, I don't want it for myself. I have my own. As if attempting to pull me back from my spiraling thoughts, the encircling fire reaches out to kiss my skin, just as the flames in my practice sessions in Two did while I trained for this day. The burn ripples across my flesh like a familiar friend, gilded with my own desperation to bare my soul to the world. Things I have spent a lifetime wanting, they exist only in this moment. This fight. This awful hour of opportunity. 'Gravity house antithesis!' (I hate you!) My sister screams from infinite miles away as she lashes out at my broadcasted image in much the same way as this girl strikes at her brother. My foot reaches up while I bristle with the echo, my toes grabbing the twirling knife from midair as I land in a too-familiar handstand before the redhead from Four. "I always had a feeling you'd end up here, Cricket. I just didn't think I would." Once again, all of the danger I possess is aimed directly for her heart, only this time my intent is not nearly so accidental. A sad smile crosses her face before she turns away from me, refocusing her attention on the conflict beyond us. Her sword cuts into the girl as she attacks her own brother once more and all I can think is: He is her Halcyon. For the lower District girl with the courage to admit so openly that her choice is herself (much more than me and my memory of the silence between my sister and I as we stood in the Justice Building before I left her behind for the sake of my own selfishness), I know theirs is not my fight. I did not come here to be a Reaper and although this trio of faces might be nearly interchangeable to me, the fallen butterflies beneath our feet tell me to remember my choices, just as they are. ("What did you do?!" The girl whose courage is more than mine rages, but the answer she seeks is more obvious than any words.) Soon, memories will be all that's left for us. 'Gravity house antithesis.' I know. [Cricket attacks River with her butterfly knife] [dice=200+2000] [Shallow Cut on Left Calf — 3.5 damage] [dice=15] [Cricket takes 3 Damage from the fire]

[/blockquote][/justify]
[/td][/tr][/table]

[bg=000000][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; height: 84px; border:1px solid #000000; -moz-border-radius-bottomleft: 40px; border-radius-bottomleft: 40px; -moz-border-radius-bottomright: 40px; border-radius-bottomright: 40px; opacity: 1;]

[/center][rand=41337324332107143678895046903248242498658332967716096943946678155]

[Python]

Cricket warded him off with minimal effort, fiery breath singing the hairs on his arm as they gently brushed against his skin and left a few minor blisters. It was an ant bite compared to the needles in his hand, throbbing with every heartbeat and movement of his sword to remind him that while he was protecting the one person he cared about most, she wanted him dead. Through the torrent of fire the signs had been very clear to him as he squinted against the brilliant series of flickering lights that whispered death to his worthless ears. Gypsy had laughed at him, laughed silently as the words spilled over her fingertips. ”You think I wanna let it come down to that, Py? You think I want it to come down to just me and you, alone in this godforsaken place with the entire fuckin’ nation waiting for me to kill you?” No, that wasn’t the idea at all. He hadn’t planned to torture her like that. That’s why River and Cricket were here, to kill him. He was meant to weaken them so she could finish them off herself. But evidently it didn’t matter anymore.

”So what, Py? So what if they kill me? Why don’t we both die, so we can be together like we used to be?” He had seen the tears welling in her eyes and turned away to keep Cricket at bay - or rather, to channel his frustration into an attack rather than standing by and suffering while his sister tried to fight. ”I wasn’t going to let it come down to just me and you, Gypsy. I was gonna to let them kill me before that happened! I was gonna die for you and now you’re just gonna fuckin’ give up? You’re just gonna give up and kill your own damn brother?” Her spirit had been a molten ball of everlasting flame throughout the course of these games, and now something was smothering it mercilessly. Whatever it was, it was leaving her a vulnerable target in a storm of dancing blades and morphing her into a monster that would betray her own blood for the sake of - for the sake of what? Dying together in battle so they could remain together for eternity? Gypsy knew nothing about death, only killing. How did she even know that they would be together?

This time he tried to dive out of her way to avoid the bite of her bladed boots, but he was not quick enough to escape. He was missing toes and losing blood, and she was in perfect shape. Physically, at least. ”STOP!” This time he screamed, he screamed as the blade sunk into his back where he couldn’t reach, clawing into muscle and sensitive nerves that twitched and seized and shriveled until he fell to his knees in the dirt and struggled to banish the tears that blinded him in a world of flashing lights. With the help of his sword he climbed to his feet and tried to battle the pain like it was his greatest foe (it might as well be), spinning on his heels to stare pleadingly at his own flesh and blood as she stood like a flaming monster waiting to finish him for reasons he could not fathom. He knew he should strike back against someone who was trying to slaughter him, those were Games basics. Kill or be killed. But even if part him wanted to seek revenge for the pain that inflicted his withering body, he didn’t have the heart. He could not bring himself to hurt his own sister, not after spending fifteen years being one of her closest friends. Not after trying to spend the last seven days protecting her when she hardly needed it. I just suffered for seven days for her, and this is my repayment?

”You don’t know what will happen to us after we die. We might never see each other again. It might even be worse than this.” Images of jagged black rocks, melting flesh, blazing bodies and silently screaming children flashed behind his eyelids. The concept of Hell was something that had come across several times when skimming over old religious books found in dusty piles in the Keeni house. There was no proof or evidence of such a terrible place existing, but this was arena was close to it, and if it could exist here it could exist elsewhere, right? That was the place that could be waiting for them, waiting for himself and for Gypsy. Whether it was likely to be real or not, there was no use risking it. His sister needed to live. She deserved that chance, even as she continued wishing for his death and stamping her bladed boots into his flesh. ”That’s why you have to live. We don’t know what’s waitin' on the other side, and you shouldn’t risk it just because you don’t want to do this anymore. If you have the heart to kill me like this than you’re strong enough to LIVE with it for you rest of your goddamn life!" Or maybe it wasn’t strength. Maybe she was just turning into a monster. Either way, he refused to kill her, and as the jungle burst into flames as if Hell were ready to consume them all he turned his back on her and blindly lashed with his sword, not caring whether he struck River or Cricket with its unpolished silver. Just die already. Kill me, and just die. Now, he wasn’t even afraid of the flames or of death. His own sister was trying to kill him, and he wanted nothing more than for all of them to speed up the process before his spirit shattered in the middle of the battlefield.

[attacks Cricket - Broadsword]
[dice=200+1000]
[Stabbed in Foot -- 8.0 damage]

[more fire damage]
[dice=15]
[11 damage]

[rand=96974438778124757112731172237545889593742555007311220148508436978]

[Deleted]

[bg=222222][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px] are you ready for another bad poem? one more off-key anthem, let your teeth sink in remember me as i was, not as i am and i said "i'll check in tomorrow if i don't wake up dead" i kept wishing she had blonde ambition and she’d let it go to my head By the time Cricket's precision-intended trap goes horribly wrong, I'm locked within the jaws of my own terror, a barely-contained breakdown rattling the cage of my bones and screaming for release. The flames that bloom from the District Two's mouth set the jungle around us all ablaze, but for a moment I forget that we're all only human, and suddenly the tongues of fire licking up my legs are the tendrils of Hell itself reaching up to drag me down into the depths of my own atrocities. I have killed, yes, I've killed and not shed a tear about it and slept soundly at night with the blood of another's life drying on my hands. Hell is what I deserve, but that doesn't mean I'll go quietly, passing into the netherworld without fighting like a thing possessed. There's too much at stake for me in the world of the living, and not even Fledger's whispered entreaties are enough to stop me from reaching for our daughter's memory. My humanity, my sense of self? That's all gone, now. The only things left to fight for are home and Brooke. But perhaps the person I was isn't entirely gone, not when the realization hits that Gypsy keeps trying to hurt Pyrian and it's not okay, nothing is okay, and for the first time I find myself wishing that I had died on the first day so I wouldn't have to stand witness to a world where sister kills brother and all sense of innocence is lost. I start to move toward the twins, another entreaty for them to stop dying on my lips when I see a blur of deadly motion come flying in from the corner of my eye. Cricket's attack lands, a crippling blow aimed at the leg that her fire's already seared, but I manage to jump out of the way in time for the damage to not be too horrible, a small nick that blazes pain for a moment before fading into the background. Still this spattering of my blood over the grass is the first time a threat from Cricket has been real (the two of us, the top scorers by the Capitol's bloody standards, we always operated under terms of tense camaraderie and the implication of almost-danger), and it's incredibly unsettling. I know not to take it personally, but I can't help but let a hurt, almost-betrayed look skate across my face. "Guess we should have known that first day in the Training Center that it was going to come down to this, yeah? I don't blame you." And I don't. I can't blame the girl from Two for wanting me dead. The dark, twisted, selfish part of me that isn't fighting tooth and nail to get home wants me dead, too. The laws of human relationships don't apply in the Arena. There's no such thing as friendship, despite how I might have tried to tell myself all along that there was. There was no love that drew me to Emmy, only pure decency that made me stay long enough to mark her passing with respect. There was no hope of me ever saving Noah, not when my own selfish motivations were strong enough to make me let go of his hand, resigning him to his death. There was nothing in my soul when I cut down one, two, three, four lives, a vague echo of horror that got progressively quieter with each drop of blood I spilled. I don't blame Cricket. But I do blame Gypsy Keeni. I blame her much more than I probably have the right to. "He's your brother! Your blood! You should be trying to keep him safe, you selfish..." There isn't a word strong enough to describe my indignation, and thoughts of family bring my mind rushing back to Brooke, to home, to the skittering needle in my heart that points anywhere but here. "You should always fight for your family. Always." [River attacks Gypsy Keeni with her longsword] [dice=200+1000] [Shallow Cut on Back of Head -- 4.5 damage] we're all fighting growing old, oh, we're all fighting growing old in the hopes of a few minutes more to get on st. peter's list but you need to lower your standards because it's never getting any better than this

[/blockquote][/justify][/td][/tr][/table][/center][rand=2998780803754926258421294391155247155913012102246807544322218746]

[Lulu]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
hey young blood doesn't it feel
like your time is running out?
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The Four girl's attacks hadn't been too sharp since the first, but every single one of 'em seemed to be aimed at me. She was shoutin' some things about how I'd just betrayed my flesh and blood—clearly it had shocked her, much as I was sure it would shock the rest of the nation—and I wanted to shove my goddamn foot, blade and all, into her sassy little mouth. "Look, stay out of it," I hissed at her, spitting some blood at her feet for added effect. "It ain't none of your business, alright?" "You should always fight for your family. Always." At this, I exploded. "What the hell do you think I've been doin' since day one? The reason Py's not dead yet is cause I've been watchin' his back and bein' his ears!" I dunno why I felt such a need to explain myself to this girl; she had no place makin' any judgments. But since she was the one in the process of tearin' me to bits, I figured I had to say somethin.

"I been fightin' for my family all along," I growled once again through clenched teeth. "And I still am. So go ahead and kill me. Kill both of us! Cause then we'll be together again, like we're supposed to be. Not torn apart at the seams." They'd slowly been fadin' from my mind over the course of the Games, all the memories I had of Pyrian and I together as a pair, enjoyin' ourselves instead of fightin' for our lives. Times spent over the fire, or out gatherin' kindling, or playin' tricks on our household full of patchwork siblings. Those times were driftin' farther and farther away; so much had changed in the course of the longest two weeks of my life, and I couldn't believe they'd never be goin' back to the way they were.

I found myself wonderin' what it would be like, death. Would I feel it, or would it kinda just be like floating away? I started to picture myself as a spark, risin' into the air, up, up, up before I went out for good. Or maybe that last dyin' ember on the hearth, flickering feebly until finally it stopped altogether, its orange glow fadin' into nothin' more than charred, ashy blackness. Did fires feel, when they died? Of course they do. Everythin' feels. Would it happen quick? I doubted it; with all the fight in me, I knew it would take some time before my flames were doused completely.

With a small sigh of helplessness I wiped some blood from my forehead—my own or someone else's, I had no idea—and looked up into the face of my twin brother. His fingers accused me of givin' up. Had I really given up? Maybe. Maybe I had. Maybe for the first time in her life, Gypsy Keeni was defeated. I ain't got anymore fight left in me, Py. I explained sorrowfully, completely lettin' my guard down and payin' no attention at all to whatever chaos was ensuin' around me. You don't know what will happen to us after we die. We might never see each other again. It might even be worse than this. I shook my head back and forth in disagreement. It won't be worse. It can't be worse, don't you remember? We've joked about it. My mind carried me back to different times, to happier times. Because even hell is fire, right? And we love fire. I gave a meek snort of laughter but it was gone in a flash and I was solemn and beaten again. Die with me, Py,

[/i] read my hands. Die with me and I promise everythin' will be okay again. And I'd never break a promise to you. Unable to manage anything else, I threw a feeble punch in my brother's direction.
[/blockquote]

[attacks Pyrian, unarmed]
[dice=200+5000]
[bruised back 2.5]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
i'm gonna change you like a remix
then i'll raise you like a phoenix
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

[/color]
[/size][/center] [/justify][rand=103714873082935812415293282829225291196745587512855862547226715833]

[L△LIA]

[bg=292226][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=style,width: 450px; border:1px solid #000000; opacity: 1;] some might follow us we're on the run tonight so light the fuse hold me close, too young to lose just like a dream, running against the wind with no regrets leave behind our innocence As the fire snaps at the sky — The air fills with fireflies, embers of the fire that lives down in her lungs, and I am a matchstick, burning up at her touch that I would give my kingdom to feel. — I am consumed by more than the ring of flames reaching out to us. It is not the new burn scorched across my skin that I feel the most deeply, but the frantic thump thump thump haunting the tips of my fingers. ("I'm afraid for you to die," he told me in the Justice Building, as if time were reversible and stepping back might be just as possible as the idea of me stepping down. However, mine is not the heart of just any girl and his pretty words had always been too difficult for me to understand. Confession and poetry are simply two names for the same idea and neither of them ever meant much to me, I swear... not very much at all.) This is not a place for stillness and I cannot bring the spin of space and time to a halt for the memory of his heartbeat that lives within my hand. Once maybe, there was a moment when I laid my hand against his chest and felt something (more than the feeble, numb pang of not-regret that follows my attack against the girl from Four), but that was a fleeting luxury. The heartbeat that has followed me here, racing with fear for the danger that I don't feel any more than he ever felt my touch against his ignorant skin, can't save me now. He is not armor against the sword that strikes out at me, stabbing my foot as I scream like my sole soul has just been struck. And it has. My weight shifts in the wake of the blow, balance buckling as my body attempts to recalibrate itself into understanding. It is not the pain itself that hurts so much as the way the wound lags my movement and disables the potential of my very abilities. I don't care about blood loss or even dying, but the idea that suddenly the simple act of standing has become difficult is nearly more than I can handle. Not in this moment; not in the middle of the performance of my lifetime. Maybe now, my selfish double-heartbeat reminds me, I have no option other than to become the most shamelessly courageous soul here after all. Automatically flipping my body off my feet and onto my hands, I pay no mind to the blood dripping down from the damaged foot above me, even as a few stray droplets splatter onto my cheeks as I look up defiantly into the faces of my enemies. This is not the first time a little red has colored my skin and I won't forget it, even with my emotions charged over a bout of unforeseen imperfection. The fire beyond continues to crackle — like fireflies and a fear that is not my own, but still howls out in my name — and I tick my motions to the sound, shutting out the voice aimed in my direction in favor of the momentum of my own vapid determination. ("Guess we should have known that first day in the Training Center that it was going to come down to this, yeah?" You didn't know? "I don't blame you." No one should blame the inevitable.) Biting down the sick turn in my stomach that pleads not Halcyon, not Halcyon, not Halcyon, I become vengeful for the first time since entering this Arena. Go ahead. Steal my weapons and take my life, but you will never destroy my pride. If I fall, it will be for glory and not your sword. The fight between these siblings is not my own, but now, between his sword and I there is a score to settle. So I spit at him with a scowl, the remnants of lighter fluid sparking in the air — embers of the fire that lives down in her lungs — as I toss my knife up into the grip of my uninjured foot. Suddenly, fighting for the sake of my own movements has become something other than showmanship, because all of this means so much more to me than I can ever admit. [Cricket attacks Pyrian with her butterfly knife] [dice=200+2000] [Shallow Cut on Right Forearm — 3.5 damage]

[/blockquote][/justify]
[/td][/tr][/table]


[/center][rand=949926301072380416161223218316156113311227402570494560366850402081]

[Python]

He didn’t hear the crackle of splitting wood as Hell's flames devoured every inch of the jungle. As the end of his blade connected with a limb in motion he wandered beneath the wavering shadow of a large tree branch bathing in ruthless flames, its surface cracking and its base slowly withering away until the branch dangled at a dangerous angle. It loomed above the oblivious boy until its body gave way and snapped from the tree with a loud series of cracks. He neither felt nor spotted any warnings before the searing heat was upon him. It singed holes into his neon clothes and sent him sprawling to the ground, gasping initially from the weight then from the terrible agony that followed. He clawed at the dirt and pushed with his knees to wriggle himself out from beneath the burning limb as the air grew thick and heavy with a mixture of painful cries and acrid smoke.This is what happens when you play with something that isn’t a toy. He silently cursed Cricket for setting the jungle aflame and trapping them within a circle of orange despite its beauty and brilliance. He recalled his father always warning the twins never to steal matches and play with fire, but they had learned to control it. This girl, however, had failed to learn, and now they were all facing the consequences.

The odor of his own roasting flesh made his insides curl. Over his shoulder he could see the streaks of burnt, blackened skin, and could not rid himself of the tears that blurred his vision. Fire was painful. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew that. He could handle blisters and burns and stings and throbs but this was agony unimaginable. Layers of his skin had melted and disintegrated - exposing the pink tissue beneath - and it made him want to scream as he made his way across the ring, both trying to avoid Gypsy and keep an eye on her. ”I ain’t got anymore fight left in me, Py. Neither did he, but she wasn’t the one being roasted alive. Not yet, at least. In a few minutes we could all burn to death, thanks to Cricket. But before that time arrived Panem would have to declare its winner, and everything Pyrian had worked for was beginning to crack. ”It can’t be worse, don’t you remember? We’ve joked about it. Because even hell is fire, right? And we love fire.” It was different. Back then, death had been the least of their worries. Now it was staring them straight in the eyes and daring them to topple over the edge. Hell seemed like such a distant concept, but now it was a possibility. Something they might see in mere minutes. He was badly burnt already, he didn’t want to be incinerated for eternity.

There’s always the chance that it doesn’t exist, and the chance that we can seek control. This man-made wildfire was beyond their reach, but perhaps Hell would be a bit more organized. If it even existed. He’d rather imagine the afterlife as a second life, or paradise. Anything but Hell, anything but nothing. He knew he had no choice but to perish here and now, but to take Gypsy with him had been his worst fear from the beginning. Now, to his horror, his fears were melding with truth. Gypsy was giving up. She didn’t want to win, and now she was begging him to die with her. Together, just like old times. ”Die with me, Py. Die with me and I promise everythin’ will be okay again. And I’d never break a promise to you.” The temptation to resist was faltering. She would never lie to him, and most of all she would never break a promise to him. So what was he supposed to do? He wanted to defend her from River’s slashes, but he was too weak and she was too beaten. She couldn’t even muster up the energy to send another kick flying in his direction, and he didn’t know if it was from the blood loss or the sheer absence of will-power. Either way her mind and her spirit were wilting as seconds passed, and it terrified him.

“Does it look like I have a choice?” He signed with trembling fingers, feeling dizzy from the blend of pain and emptying vessels. He felt tired; very, very tired, but the scorch marks across his skin - still sizzling beneath patches of heat that had not yet cooled - continued to make his heart race. With little blood left to circulate, however, his heart failed to pump anything of much use to his organs. ”I always knew I was gonna die, but I didn’t know I’d be takin’ you with me..” He struggled to keep his hand from quivering as his gestures grew sluggish and hesitant. He knew he was dying, there was no other explanation. He just didn’t know how long it would take, or how much time he would have left. He had wanted to make himself useful by perhaps crippling the district two prodigy to give Gypsy a boost toward victory. He knew he couldn’t actually kill the strange serpent woman, but would it have hurt to try, anymore then it did now? No, it would’ve worked, if only Gypsy weren’t so damn stubborn, letting River’s sword devour her skin slice by slice. She promised him that everything would be okay after they died, and he wanted to believe her. Maybe he did. His mind was too clouded by distractions of weakness. I only wanted her to be happy, he reminded himself. But what if winning won’t make her happy? What if she feels the same way I do? It wouldn’t surprise him. They were twins, after all, sharing similar minds and passions and hearts. Sharing the same emotions wouldn’t be such a strange idea.

”If it’s what you want..” He had lost the energy to argue with her. She was unhappy, he wanted her to be happy, and he trusted her promises. What other alternatives were there? ”..then I’ll do whatever it takes.” And then he turned to Cricket - the dragon who could breathe fire and twist herself into knots like a writhing serpent. The rage coating a beautiful face was undeniable as she spilled blood across his forearm, a meager spatter of crimson paint compared to the puddles and trails he left in his wake. He had partially crippled her with his sword - not that it made her any less dangerous, since she could walk on her hands - and now she was infuriated with him. Good. Kill me. He stepped defiantly toward her, face drawn tight into a challenging scowl, and raised his sword to provoke her. For Gypsy. For River. For Noah. I’ll die for all of you. Steel whipped through the air as the fire in his eyes faded to the flicker of a small candlelight. He willingly doused it with submission.

[attacks Cricket - Broadsword]
[dice=200+1000]
[Shallow Cut on Right Hip -- 3.5 damage]

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[Deleted]

[bg=222222][atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=width,500,true][atrb=style,width: 500px] are you ready for another bad poem? one more off-key anthem, let your teeth sink in remember me as i was, not as i am and i said "i'll check in tomorrow if i don't wake up dead" i kept wishing she had blonde ambition and she’d let it go to my head Filler filler filler. I am so sorry, guys. Working on these right now. I cannot explain how sorry I am. [River attacks Gypsy Keeni with her longsword] [dice=200+1000] [Severed Right Arm at Shoulder -- 10 damage] [+1 Blades] [Total -- 11 damage] we're all fighting growing old, oh, we're all fighting growing old in the hopes of a few minutes more to get on st. peter's list but you need to lower your standards because it's never getting any better than this

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[Lulu]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
wearin our vintage misery
no, i think it looked a little better on me
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

woo filler, I have no time to even like live lately let alone write an angst penultimate finale post and I don't want to hold this up so I will fill this in asap I promise.

For now basically what's happening is Gypsy's on the verge of giving up, she's on the ground flailing her fists meekly at Pyrian, and then suddenly she sees that whoa, her arm's lying in the dirt next to her! Somehow this pain invigorates her more than anything else has, and in one last burst of determination and anger she kicks her knife boot at River, hoping that even though she knows she's dying, she'll still be able to give River a taste of the hurt.

[attacks River, knife boot]
[dice=200+2000]
[sc cheek 3.5]

She realizes with horror after the attack that she needs both hands to be able to sign for Py, and she stares at her one remaining appendage trying to figure out how she'll even be able to say goodbye to her brother when she's missing half of her communication tools. There is one thing she can say though, because they purposely made it an easy one. I love you, Py,

[/color] says her fingers, just like they have so many times in the past.[/blockquote]

.:.:.:.:.:.:.
i'm gonna change you like a remix
then i'll raise you like a phoenix
.:.:.:.:.:.:.

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