a fist full of sand// nocturne

[sbeeg]

Erebus Turner

Blindly, the young boy took off towards the horizon, stumbling across the hard packed dirt that soon gave way to cracked clay and then dry, hot sand. Even now, only maybe an hour into the Games, Erebus could feel the back of his neck burning and his skin cooking inside the thick jeans that served as his uniform. He was tempted to remove the vest and shirt to cool himself down but was wary of attackers and a third degree sunburn all over his torso.

Clutching his bag and his knife, Erebus kicked through the sand, his toes pinched together and his mind slowing down from heat and exhaustion. The adrenaline rush that had hurtled him through the Bloodbath was gone and all that was left was the crusted blood drying in the lines of his palms. He had done it. Just like Lethe before him. He hadn't done all that much harm to his fellow tributes, or at least that's what he kept telling himself.

Cupping a hand over his eyes to shield them from the worst of the sun, he examined the land around him. There wasn't hardly anything here at all. He had lost track of Nocturne, but that was common for the start of the Games. He was sure he'd be able to find him. The boy that he had seen the District Nine boy slip off in this direction but maybe he was imagining things. Once the fighting started everyone blurred together. He hoped that his ally hadn't gotten himself into too much trouble, but the longer he trekked through the sand the more apparent it became that the tribute had been held up in some way.

It wouldn't do any good to leave without him, so Erebus stopped in the middle of the desert and sat down in the sand. The one good thing about such a flat, empty land was that he could see people coming at him from quite a distance. This was helpful for when a figure finally came into view, Erebus was able to decide whether to greet them or get the hell out of dodge.

Greetings were required for it was Nocturne who had stumbled into his side of the desert.

"You look terrible," Erebus said, taking in the sorry state of the boy in front of him. The Turner had been lucky and had escaped the Cornucopia unscathed, the same was not true for his companion. "Sit, I'll fix you up."


[Erebus performs first aid on Nocturne Vargas and gets an empty canteen via sponsorship]

[L△LIA]

This is what a miracle feels like, he supposes. The sound of raging wagon wheels and Dan's maniacal shouts are still roaring in his ears and yet he's alive somehow, passed over with nothing more than a little extra damage to his ego. Considering the state he's in, the Vargas boy isn't much in the mood to strut anyhow, limping along with a winding, pathetic kind of twist to his steps. Every now and then one foot will slip against the sand and he thinks the world might be crashing down upon him, his bones jolting and still bleeding wounds screaming in defiance of his silently clenched jaw.

He thinks he can hold the pain in, resolutely convinced he has suffered worse before now. Whether or not that's true or just another one of his infinite lies, this so-called miracle still feels pretty godawful. Honestly, he doesn't even know how bad the damage from the Bloodbath was, too scared to look down. (For the record: he has several cuts and bruises, a wickedly deep gash on his already permanently damaged left leg, and an oozing stab wound to his stomach that he'd probably faint from looking at too closely. It's certainly not unimpressive that he's kept walking.)

Breathing gets a little easier as the panic fades from his steps, but he's exhausted and the closest thing to company he has in this desert is the occasional sun bleached cow skull laying half-buried in the sand. He entertains himself by periodically leaving messages scrawled in the sand for other Tributes who might be passing by —

Haven't seen a wool suit or a fancy party for miles, Vargas.

Maiden May, you had better smile if you read this. The time for serious faces is never.

I've got more bruises, Leon. You promised to make them better.

Grandmas juggle better than Sonja Arcopello.

Dan Johnwayne better run!

— and after a while he begins collecting cattle skulls as a way to convince himself he's not going in circles again, that each new skull is definitely different from the last, unceremoniously shoving them into a particularly fancy-looking saddlebag he managed to grab in the earlier fight for supplies. He has two by the time he finally sees a face that's living, stuttering to a halt and freezing with renewed terror.

With a racing heart and gasping lungs, he wonders if Erebus's face is a mirage or if he really does get to live two miracles in one day. The voice reaching out to him doesn't sound like his imagination though, so Nocturne continues shambling forward, collapsing to the ground next to him more than sitting. "Y'oughta see the other guy," he drawls with a smirk that's too strained around the edges to be as believable as usual. The attempt at humor falls away completely as Erebus begins checking his wounds, the poking and prodding wrenching his face into an admission of the pain he's been ignoring.

A cringing groan of misery is interrupted by the sound of beeping — quiet in the distance, but growing louder and louder — a sponsorship package falling from the sky that looks much larger than a Tribute like the Vargas boy warrants. Either that training score of his must be worth more than he though or someone in the Capitol has been won over by his ridiculous and highly questionable charms. The contents range from a couple of medkits that are incredibly useful and relevant to what should be his current concerns, to the nearly useless things that hold his attention more than anything else: a light brown ten gallon cowboy hat and red paisley bandana.

The hat just-so-happens to match the color of his belt buckle perfectly and he manages a laugh, wondering if maybe — just maybe — the conversation this morning with his Stylist might have had a little something to do with this. Pulling the hat onto his head and tying the bandana around his neck (all while studiously ignoring the way the later just-so-happens to match the color of the blood spattered all over his clothing), he still can't decide if this is a series of miracles or not. "Much better." Stab wounds and gashes aside, whatever this is — death-defying escapes, familiar faces filled with concern, support from the kind of strangers who used to overlook him completely — it's not such a bad feeling.

[Picks up two Cow Skulls]
[Receives First Aid for -3]
[Receives a Ten Gallon Hat, Red Paisley Bandana, Cooking Pot, Rope, Duct Tape, and two Medkits via sponsorship]
[Gives one Medkit to Erebus]
[Erebus uses N/T and 5ft of bandages on Nocturne for -6]