The Edge of Glory [Someith v Heather v Beretta]

[Kire]

When the Devil is too busy and death's a bit too much
They call on me by name, you see, for my special touch

Third Person, First Person, Says, Thinks

He had gotten a number of goodies from Dustyn's body and pack. For one, the weapon the boy had wielded against him was now in his possession. The other, a spear, was now stuck in the crack between two columns and had a lantern hanging from it. There was also an impaled turnip on the shaft of the weapon and inside that turnip was a candle. The thing could have been a miniature lighthouse had at least one of the lights been lit, but he had lacked any matches and so the rocks remained in the dark.

After sorting through the items, he had optimized what he carried. Everything else was tossed into the sea with relish. He took special delight in shredding the tapestry and portrayed his cousin's downfall before flinging the scraps to the breeze. With the clearing of unnecessary burdens completed, he headed away from the cabin and back towards the mainland. No one was over on the island so there was no point travelling there. He was starting to get used to killing every day and wanted to continue his streak. Grinning darkly to himself, he climbed past the beach. He was so sick of that beach, even though he had found entertainment there a few times he was rather bored of the rocks. The splash of colour that was Annora's blanket painted with a lipstick skull and crossbones turned his grin into a razor's curve.

When he spotted a figure he didn't bother considering options. He knew that it was time to kill again and in his gut there was a small fluttering. Not fear - he feared nothing - but excitement? Surely not, he didn't experience anything but boredom or interest. Well, perhaps this was his piqued interest, then.

Yanking the newest addition to his weapon collection from his pack, he loped over to the figure. No words, no announcing his presence, he simply swung the pole weapon.

Scream.

Bleed.

Die.

[Attacks Heather | Halberd]
|KxjsPpGglaive
Block - 0.0

glaive�glaive

[L△LIA]

now fall off to sleep
i'm not meaning to keep you
l o o - l i l o o - l i
loo-li lai-lay

In the distance, the sound of galloping hooves wakes children from their slumber. You are coming. Pale rider atop a jet black horse, death's mist clings to you, writhing between armor and skin as you tear across the cliffs in a clatter of bones. The pits of Hell belong to you now more than ever before, a crocodile and hyena mutely screaming as they tangle into each other while throwing themselves against the cage of your chest plate. Their anguished faces break against the shield of ribs protecting you, despite not being able to protect the creature they belonged to in a past life, as tooth and eye whirl together and away into silver nothingness.

Hair still wet with blood, it has been combed back in a dripping swath beneath the balor skull you wear as a helmet. The sky is clear, yet rain still falls upon your back. You have become your own weather system — stormheart, tempestgrin, thunderbreath. The morning's chill radiates from you, a skeletal hand seeming to bloom from your lips as you exhale. It shivers while reaching for the illogical warmth of your skin, your hand possessively wrapped around reigns that used to be familiar with his own touch. You have everything Sir Thanatos wants. Inhaling the ghost of his bones, you deny the dullahan's undying attempt to claim you for his own as you lock him away in your lungs instead of your heart.

The eyes of the stallion you ride are starred with white, as if it is meant to see only the great beyond. It whinnies as you swallow the hand that used to command it, crying out for help, hoping to be saved from you. Too late. Any soul upon this hellscape is already lost. Sea spray fills the air with agreement, taking one look at the seductive guise of humanity you wear more falsely than your second set of hands and throwing itself up in surrender.

Digging your heels in, you streak across the cliff's horizon. The blood-blackened pelts of your coat fluttering out behind you as a banner and the balor's massive jaw of serrated teeth clanking on its hinges, everything you have killed comes back to life in this rush of wind. Familiar faces haunt the sky — a night of knights as Kitty, Dustyn, and Thanatos join ranks together. Only two of them are emblazoned across the stars, but one of your precious pawns is there to take the dullahan's place. Chloe's panic has finally been calmed and you find yourself humming under your breath from habit.

"Loo-li loo-li," a pair of kittens curl up in the soft melody, nestled in white as they drift upon a breeze that flays them apart as if it were another one of your weapons, "loo-li lai-lay." You do not stop to mourn, uncompelled as they too reach out, but are unable to find a way beneath your armor, your skin, your untouchable heart. They died for you, as everyone here will. Even death itself fell to your hand and you stole not only his horse, but his guardianship of damned souls.

A phoenix soars up from the earth kicked up by the hooves of the grim reaper's steed as it circles around a pair of clashing tributes. Your gentle hum still resonates through the hush of morning as you offer them death's hand the same way it had been held out for you — skeletal, deadly, merciless. Except you hold a scythe with which to claim them, blade sharp enough to lay them back down to sleep. Despite the thoughts that have crossed both Heather and Someith's minds in the past, a grave is a far warmer bed than laying down with you.

[idk is it okay for me to have secret garden feels while writing a beretta post]

[prrrrrrrrrobably not]

[somewhere my childhood is screaming in horror]

[I'm not okay with anything today so let's just add it to the list tbh]

[:hell_kim: x infinity]

[1: Someith // 2: Heather]

f_nqNet51-2

[spins wheel horse: Heather]

[scythe]

glaive

[Shallow Cut on Right Shoulder — 3.5 damage]

1-2�glaive

[cameron]

[googlefont="Satisfy:400"]

heather tenley

"Now, now, Heather. Young ladies don't roll on the floor, and especially not with little boys!"

My mother had a habit of ending my fun before it ever began. I was four years old and she had forced me into a stiff blue and white checkered dress that her 'very own mother had worn ages ago' and some other sentimental shit I did not begin to care about in the slightest, and she dragged me down the road - making sure I only bounced on the balls of my feet and never let my heels come in contact with the ground - to her neighbor's tea party.

When I thought of tea parties, I expected tons of stuffed animals and sipping air with my pinky up. When she thought of tea parties, she thought of boring conversations held around a long, nondescript wooden table, all while sitting only on the frontmost part of the seats. Pastries were displayed on the table in shining dishes, but no one ate a bite.

Luckily, our neighbor had a son around my age. He was cute, if I was allowed to think about boys, and had a tiny speck of dirt on his left cheek. His own mother had clearly given him instructions to avoid the dining room, but I saw him peak out from the door frame several times, exchanging giggles and stifling them as fast as we could. It was almost as if we already knew each other, knew that we couldn't be seen expressing amusement or we would get a stern lecture. His game of peek-a-boo around the frame turned into a finger wagging and he disappeared, so I did my best to sneak away from the table without being seen.

But I was four. When I thought I was being sneaky, I was being glaringly obvious.

Nonetheless I ran for it, through the doors and away from the ladies positioned with their ankles crossed beneath their chairs and their dainty little saucers held beneath their matching mugs. I ran straight into the boy, as if by instinct, I licked my thumb and scrubbed the dirt off his face.

Next thing I knew we were on the ground, laughing and rolling and forgetting that our mothers were only a room away.

"But Mother, I'm not a young lady. I'm a little girl!"

I never made it back to a tea party at the boy's house. The days of those were conveniently the days I was instructed to stay behind and clean the house. We passed each other in town sometimes, but despite his laughter and his waving, I never acknowledged him again.

Still, I wanted to be a little girl. I wanted the luxury the boy received. I wanted to be regarded as inferior and childish. I wanted to be young and free. Instead I was me.

I stumbled all night, unclothed and unaccustomed to the terrain before me without a guiding hand. My fingers instinctively reached and curled into anything nearby, hoping it was him but it couldn't be him I left him he was gone we were done. I left him. I told Tyler goodbye and I left him and I could not stop thinking that underneath this skin there was a human clawing its way out of its earthly cage. I was not really alive, a part of me had never been allowed to live, always stifled like my laughter at the party. But ever since I found him it had been different. My thoughts were clearer and my human inside, the one that had been so content in its prison for so long, laying dormant for years and years, was fighting again. This part of me had been sleeping steadily since I was a "young lady" but now, now I got to be a little girl again.

But my girlish curiosity that he had exposed, that had struggled with my insides and carved its way out through my chest, had been killed again. But this time, my mother the terrible was not the culprit. For the first time in my life someone besides her had held me back.

It was me.

I left him and the human inside went back to rest and I was completely alone.

The whole night was spent alone, away, with no warmth and no protection and no me. I found my boots kicking rocks as I continued forward, my body accustomed to the chills the arena provided. I assumed the sun had risen but I didn't much care. I just wanted out.

My nose twitched as I smelled the dead-looking one coming towards me. Daria's District partner. Something Kranes probably didn't realize I could tell he was coming. Hell, I didn't want to be able to recognize someone I maybe said a word to in the Training Center by his scent, but I couldn't fix that. My eyes were out of commission for the long haul and that was all I was left with. A super nose.

Super fucking duper.

I held up my arm and stopped him, readying to strike back, when I smelled something far more sinister enter the area. The Queen of everything was nearing me and for the first time since she drenched me in blood and ripped out my entire soul I felt nothing in me react.

I had half a mind to just keep walking through, and let the weird Skeleton Twins hash out their post-modern gothic angst one on one, but then I heard the last thing I wanted to hear.

Chatter's screams found my ears, his anguish apparent and his distress cutting into me deeper than any weapon could. It disappeared for a brief instant, and then it was back, a whirring accompanying its oncoming screech."What did you do to him?" I called, the Queen riding up on what smelled like a horse to slash my shoulder. But I didn't care what she did to me. I didn't care what anyone did to me. I wanted answers.

"What the fuck did you do to him?"

I swung.


attacks beretta bc she has fuckin chatter wtf m8
HqvgswAOglaive
stabbed in forearm 8.5

ooc: im sorry for this messglaive

[Kire]

to the gentlemen, i'm miss fortune, to the ladies, i'm sir prize
but call me by any name, anyway, it's all the same

Third Person, First Person, Says, Thinks

His strike was clumsy and was blocked by a flailing arm. Once the clang of weapons sounded he then noticed who had stopped his blade. Heather stood before him, looking a little worse for ware. She was a lot better than he was, however, having barely any scratches on her skin. Well, except for the burnt patch on her chest and her blankly staring eyes. She was very much alive, but it seemed her eyes had suffered damage from something. He sneered at her, though she couldn't see, and was both amused and annoyed that she had somehow managed to block his strike without being able to see. Pure dumb luck, surely.

On the air there came the sound of thunder. The sky was clear and the weather calm but a storm was clearly on the way. When she came into view his grin grew wider. The storm took no other form than that of his Queen. Beretta was a grisly sight on the back of her nightmare steed, and he enjoyed the little shiver it gave him to look at her. The King, the Queen, and their pawn. This was a time for tactics and strategy. This would be the move that could make the match.

Beretta bore down on them, slicing at Heather with a scythe made from the claw of some giant beast. Of course the Queen would be capable of slaying such a creature. He couldn't wait to tear the weapon from her lifeless fingers, couldn't wait to see her fall. In chess, a King didn't need his Queen. Besides - he turned to eye the blinded Heather - he could always promote another to the honor. They would never see him turning on the Queen until she fell from the noble steed. He would unseat her and would usurp her with Heather.

Then he would use his new Queen to slay the remaining players before committing his final regicidal act and truly crowning himself king.

I will be the king in crown and name in the way I haven't yet managed. I will bring terror to Panem and drive Snow to his knees. Fear me, o President, o Gamemakers, for I am King Someith Krearns

and I will kill them all.

This time he would not allow lust to control him. Lust was so much less than bloody desire, and he would show it to be so. Beretta can try her tricks and charms but this time he would not allow her to walk away. He would kill her here and now, he would mark her and make her his own, just as he had Annora. She had turned her back on him, she had disobeyed and ignored his orders, she was the one who brought her death upon herself. He had warned her and she hadn't listened. All the better that he destroy this problem now, before she got too out of hand. She was a rabid dog and he would put her down, just another wolf to destroy.

When he crowned Heather, for whatever temporary time, she would thank him and praise him. For once he would have someone obey. If not, he would kill her too.

He would kill them all.

Heather begins to scream at Beretta and he snaps his gaze to her. Somehow, despite being blind, Heather was able to swing her weapon directly at the Queen. He leered at the wound that resulted, the blood pooling around the point of the weapon before the blade was yanked away. He would not allow Heather to kill Beretta, but if she wanted to help him then he would not stop her. They would commit this regicide together and then he would move the crown from one queen's head to the next. All the while, he would be king.

He would always be king.

[Attacks Beretta | Halberd]
xNxrPeLlglaive
Deep Gash on Back of Head -- 9.0 damage

glaive

[L△LIA]

a gypsy told my fortune
and i told her hers
i s a i d
you'll die high in the mountains
wrapped in silver furs

It is said that fortune is a wheel.

Once upon another time you were a sweet-faced teenage girl and home was marked by a street sign instead of blood. You kept the collar of your shirt buttoned to the throat, smiles were measured with precision, and impulse was not in your vocabulary. It's impressive that Circe, Elya, and Spoke convinced you to step foot upon the carnival grounds of Cirque du Mort. "Circus of Death," Elya hissed in your reluctant ear with a knowing smirk as Circe took you by one hand and Spoke by the other, pulling you forward even as you rolled your eyes. As if you could be so easily swayed... but you were and so it was that you found yourself sitting before a two-bit fortune teller shuffling a deck of tarot cards.

"This is ridiculous," you sighed while the other girls snickered at your expense, glaring at Circe until she buried her face in Elya's hair to hide her hysterical tears of laughter over the taunts aimed at your straight-laced pride. An ego as big as yours is an easy target to hit for anyone with guts enough to dare; Elya Johnwayne had a dangerous habit of speaking to you as if you were a stray mutt. You'd have hated her if you didn't not-hate her so much.

("Not-hating something means you like it, Beretta," your sister used to snipe at you.

Without giving her the satisfaction of pulling a face, you would simply wave your hand dismissively. "I'm not so sure of that when I'm around you." This was your way of saying you didn't hate her either and, despite everything, she couldn't help but smile even when you refused.)

"Beretta Corléon is scared of a pack of cards."

"Oh, please."

"Beretta Corléon is worried about what a few pictures are gonna say about her ugly soul."

"My soul is still better looking than your one-eyed face."

"The great and terrible Queen Corléon is no match for a kiddie carnival trick!"

Swiping the cards away from the woman running that pathetic excuse for a sideshow attraction, you set your unsettling gaze on your friends as you sneered and cut the deck, handing it back with the same expression other people wear while taking out the trash. "Well don't keep us waiting," you sarcastically implored, "what does the future hold?" Incense clouded the air, pungent to the point of making you nauseous, and every surface in the tent was draped with cheap silk or cheaper velvet. The so-called psychic refused to flinch for you as she fanned the deck out and you chose three cards: Chariot, Devil, Wheel of Fortune. Past, present, future. All upside down.

"Very interesting," the fortune teller tried to say before Spoke interrupted by sending her crystal ball rolling across the table, "these are all major arcan—"

A foggy sky trapped within a glass cage, it was pretty, but you did not believe that it held the universe or any of its secrets. Judging from the expression on Spoke's face, neither did she. Whether by accident or intention, she upended it while screeching, "Devil! Maybe the the cards really do know you, 'Retta! Ooooo!" Waggling her fingers in your face as if you might actually be taken aback — the daughter of Don Corléon spooked by a cartoon of a little red man with horns — she only relented her teasing to glare at the psychic for asking her to be careful not to knock anything else over. "I could knock you over instead."

The sincerity behind the spontaneous threat was lost to the rioting laughter of the two other girls, Circe picking up the Devil card and holding it up in front of her face to oogie boogie boo! at Elya. "I'm Beretta, I'm sooo scary!" Elya screamed in mock-horror and pretended to faint, causing her attacker to start muttering about mouth to mouth resuscitation.

The only crack in the one-eyed girl's performance was a twitch in her cheek as she bit back a grin and drawled out a deadpan, "save me!" Circe took the cue, causing Spoke to pull a handkerchief off a lamp to throw over their heads. Killing two birds with one silken stone, she gave her friends a scrap of privacy and raised the psychic's hackles in petty retaliation.

You've never known what you saw in any of those ridiculous girls, only that they didn't flinch while looking at you — and, oh yes, by then they'd already good and truly seen you. It was impressive. You've never flinched because of anything they've done either, although you did a doubletake when Circe gasped in a way that caused Spoke to start hurling improvised projectiles at their CPR practice session. "Break it up! Get a glass of water if you're that thirsty."

All the while the fortune teller had been rattling off your tarot reading, hardly pausing to take breaths in an attempt to get things over with as quickly as possible and move on to more polite customers. "The Wheel of Fortune is reversed, forcing change upon you. You may think you are consciously stopping events from running their course, but taking risks means that you may not come out a winner. You should be cautious. Select the safest bet instead of relying upon the luck that blessed you with stability in your former life. The upcoming turn of events will not be in your favor and there will be negative forces at play outside of your control, destined to make you powerless and send your world spinning —"

The crystal ball rolled across the cards once again, cutting her off.

"Spinning!" Spoke gleefully parroted.

Round and round, the small world of fog spun out of control. No one stopped it. Maybe that's why it's still spinning as the horse gallops in circles around Someith and Heather, noosing them. Hawks soar from the shadows of your coat of many pelts, but dissipate in the sunlight as if they are both named Icarus. Their ashes drift back down to crown your head before bursting into a phoenix that whirls into its own wings to be reincarnated as a hyena once more, desperately flinging its smoke-hewn body forward as your scythe swings down at the girl it loves. It catches the blade, but cannot stop it. You're unable tell if it is in pain because Heather is in pain or if it is in pain because your weapon slashes its chest in half. It's all the same to you. Little do you realize that it's all the same to love as well.

("I don't hate you too," your sister whispers to the television screen, razor sharp fingernails digging into her palms as she cries from the pain of watching helplessly while you're stabbed in the arm before a halberd strikes your head. Amaryllia cannot stop the attacks. She cannot take this damage for you. If she could, she would match your wounds the same way she has matched your manicure.)

The dullahan's horse continues to run in circles around the duo. Like you, it is excited by death and the scent of blood in the air, spurred to move faster by it. Catch the soul, it thinks instinctively, blinking its star-speckled eyes. There is fog caught in its lashes. Round and round it goes, unstoppable in its course. You go with it, still unafraid, still confident that you are the Devil with balor-horns upon your head and not a wheel spinning out of control.

[1: Someith // 2: Heather]

6nD4J_|e1-2

[spins wheel horse: Heather]

[scythe]

glaive

[Deep Gash on Stomach — 9.0 damage]

1-2�glaive

[cameron]

[googlefont="Satisfy:400"]

heather tenley

For a moment everything was still.

Nothing moved, no one breathed. I stood, Chatter's phantom shrieks reverberating through me, the hair on my arms standing on end, chills crawling across my skin like a parched traveler fighting his way through the desert. I was desperate to save him, desperate to reach out and cradle his misty form, protect him from the menace of an empress before me, but I couldn't budge. My fingers curled in, nails baring into my palm, because as much as I wanted to, needed to jump in front of the blade and take the brunt of the attack, I couldn't. Despite my eyes' recent disposition to fail me, I knew her blade slashed through my friend, through his body and straight into my skin. I couldn't see, but I knew he dissipated around the strike. I knew he was gone.

Time found itself moving forward once more, and the wind around me continued to blow, to rustle my rough hair into my face. My eyes welled and stung with the appearance of salt as the mistress of the underworld sank her hellish blade into my stomach, the gallop of her steed's hooves shaking me with every forceful step. My mother pressed the timer on her stopwatch again, the clock freezing, my lungs unable to take in oxygen. My tears never fell.

Mother let go of the button and looked at me, stern as always, her face showing no emotion and her hair pulled back so tightly it made her forehead look like it needed to let out a thousand screams. "Try again, Heather." Inside I was dying, and outside was hardly different. The bottoms of my feet had been bleeding and raw for hours, the heat of the summer striking me from above and the jagged edges of the rocks from below. I had been tasked with walking across the rocks, balancing a potted plant on my head, and reaching the other side within a thirty second time frame. The balancing was no hard task for me - after years of this strenuous training, ten year old me was more than capable at balancing almost anything without difficulty. The problem arose with the hot, searing stones stabbing my feet over and over, drawing blood with each new step from several different locations. Mother had taken me to a secluded section of the District, where the dirt hadn't laid for years and instead these serrated rocks resided.

It was there that I spent twelve straight hours every day that summer, my mother requiring I quicken my pace each day. A month in, and I did not want to be alive.

I leaped across the rocks and onto the nearby grass, the blades instantly cooling the sores. Turning to her, I hoped she would let us leave early as the sun was drenching me in sweat. Instead, she motioned to go again, and I returned to the beginning of the rock patch and waited for her to press the button. My eyes trained on her thumb, hoping to start the second she moved, needing to get it over with as hastily as imaginable.

She started the timer again, and the tears fell.

Beretta rode away, her horse stampeding into the ground like each step would contact its former master, calling out to him and letting him know that its new mistress was seven layers of hell worse than he ever was. I could smell her sneer plastered across her face as she rode away from me, and the blood falling from my stomach ran in rivers down my thighs, giving the wind extra force to chill me. But it wasn't the wind that got the job done; it was the freezing of time and the cold that accompanied the dark one's presence.

She was winter and I would be the coming of spring if I had anything to say about it.

attacks beretta bc FCK U
yxNJtc3Aglaive
shallow cut on left thigh, 3.5

glaive

[Kire]

i'm the fly in your soup, i'm the pebble in your shoe
i'm the pea beneath your bed, i'm a bump on every head

Third Person, First Person, Says, Thinks

Beretta would not give up her crown so easily, nor had he wanted her to. She said no words, just as he cared nothing to speak, but cantered around them in ever tightening circles. Death was closing in like a spiraling hawk, but death's name was not Beretta Corleon.

Heather's breathing was suddenly shallow as the Queen's beastly claw drove deep into her flesh. He watched as Queen and Pawn traded blows - the queen striking with force and the pawn with a paltry scratch where once they were opposites. Whichever came out of this would be his Queen for the moments until he stole their final breath. He would kill them both, but for now let them weaken each other as he watched and enjoyed. In this grisly clash he would only partake in the dealing of damage and not in the receiving.

The ground began to turn red, flecked with gore as each chess piece struck another. There was only space for one on this square, the square beside his throne, and they were fighting for it. Unwittingly, they were fighting for him. They fought for the few extra hours of inaction he would hold against them. He had made his choice, though, he knew who he wanted as his matriarchal companion. The old Queen would fall, let the new Queen rise.

Somewhere the scream of a creature reached his ears. He was never bothered by screams, they simply entertained him. Only when there was a hiss that resonated with his soul - stained and bloody though it was - did he learn some of what such a sound might cause another person. For the first, and mostly likely last time, in his life, Someith Krearns felt something like loss. Where once a fearsome crocodile ambled beside him there was only empty air. In the mist, on the breeze, there was a hint of what used to be. As soon as it had come, though, it was gone and like that anything that may have been afflicting him left also. Once more he was fully set to his task, once more he would kill.

He was growing tired of a Queen who did not turn to him, he was growing tired of a Queen who thought she knew better than he did. Now was the time to crown a new monarch, one who would be grateful to him until the moment he removed the heart from her chest and crushed it, just as Beretta had crushed the bird's heart those few days before. The image of the broken bird drew his lips back into a wolf's grin. He might not have become a wolf like Annora but he had always been a hunter. Queen Beretta was now his prey and soon she would be Queen no longer.

Let it be known, King Someith demands the head of Beretta the fallen royal.

Let it also be known that he would take it himself.

[Attacks Beretta | Halberd]
H7v867Neglaive
Shallow Cut on Stomach -- 4.0 damage

glaive

[L△LIA]

fully dead already
but forever young

Detachment is happiness. You have always known that true freedom is found by shaking off desire for people and possessions, never having known what it is to want, seeing past momentary greed and making yourself hard to hold onto. It wasn't that you never cared at all, but that you always kept yourself separate. No one but you has ever defined your existence, despite shouts of: "Devil!"

"Devil!" Circe echoed the voice of her own desire.

"Devil!" Spoke agreed.

Striding out of the fortune teller's tent with your head held high, the other three girls whirled in circles around you, continuously crying out Devil! Devil! Devil! as a chant while kicking their feet into the air and pulling faces at you with their hands held to their temples, pointing fingers up as horns. Eye of the storm, your own expression remained passive. It wasn't until Circe reached out to pull the top button of your shirt collar undone that you finally stuck your tongue out and reluctantly laughed at their antics.

"The Devil means that you desire freedom from harmful bonds and are finally willing to accept the coming changes in your life, but this will not be an easy journey. You will need to go to battle against your own fears and the demons within. Be cautious about the temptations that will find you in the future, promising to not only give you everything you have ever wanted, but also offering you what you have lost in the past. Stay grounded in the present or you might lose yourself —"

Breaking down your carefully guarded walls, Spoke rushed up from behind you, knocking you off your feet and throwing you over her shoulder. Other carnival goers turned to catch a glimpse of the ruckus, uncertain as to what was happening. Back then no one outside of the circle thought to remember your faces, but you knew there was greatness. Invisible bonds were strung out between all of you, tangled up in madness and bared teeth. Whether from aggression or elation, your lips were always drawn back and it bound the group together.

"Does this make you my Chariot?" You tried your best to keep your voice even and sarcastic, but every vowel that crossed your tongue squeaked with the height of your spirits as Spoke spun you around and around as if to prove how determined they were to loosen you up.

Elya cheered, stealing a handful of popcorn from a bystander who made the mistake of blinking. "Puke on her back!" Dizziness was not the real threat — not then and certainly not now.

There wasn't any need to worry about falling when you were being held onto, but you're not on Spoke's back anymore. Her arms do not hold your legs to the safety of her chest, Elya and Circe are no longer within catching distance, and you do not realize the dangerous momentum that is flinging you around. You are free from everything and this may be a kind of happiness, but it is also a kind of loneliness.

The dullahan's horse continues to circle and although you think you command it, if you pulled back on the reigns it would not stop for you. It cannot see the faces of those who challenge you, smashing your armor away so that they might destroy the parts of you that are unguarded since setting out on your own. The balor's skull cracks in two and rains down upon your shoulders in shattered fragments as your horns ("Devil!" "Devil!" "Devil!") are stripped away.

Rib bones are turned to shrapnel soaring through the air as the scream of Heather's aibell drowns in her blood, torn apart while trying to hold her together. Seizing opportunity, a crocodile bursts from your chest and snaps its jaws at your face in an attempt to devour you in retribution for holding it captive. You are battling not just a pair of tributes, but the strength of everything they have ever bound themselves to. The air is haunted by things they've allowed to define pieces of their existence while you are alone.

No one stands by your side to protect you now. Circe, Elya, and Spoke are gone. Even Sir Thanatos is locked away within the dungeon of your lungs, because you are detached from everything. You are self-reliant. The bones you wear cover you from toe to throat and this is not happiness like you think it is. As blind as the fog-starred eyes of the creature you are carried by, you have forgotten the true reason this whirling dizziness feels like empowerment.

The horns of your broken helmet are crushed beneath the horse's hooves. There are still mouths that take one look and name you Devil!, but you cannot hear them. Not anymore.

[1: Someith // 2: Heather]

WqPfMfmZ1-2

[spins wheel horse: Heather]

[scythe]

glaive

[Deep Gash on Right Thigh — 8.0 damage]

1-2�glaive

[cameron]

[googlefont="Satisfy:400"]

heather tenley

Her blade dug into my thigh and a part of me considered it her way of flirting with me, and any day before today I was entirely likely to fall to my knees in submission to her majesty's desires. But today was different and I was different and I was not about to cave into sinful temptations now. A cannon sounded and for a second my spirits jumped, hopeful that Beretta had been struck by cosmic karmic resonance, but I still heard the possessor of her heart's cavern thumping away in her chest and that caused my own heart to sink.

Immediately I was terrified for the faces that would plaster the sky that night. I couldn't see who made their way out of the Arena like the other Tributes, but I had a feeling I did not want to see the Anthem anyway. Two days ago I carried my alliance through the games on my back, and today we were all alone and without me I didn't have as much faith in them as I wanted to. Daria could hold her own against almost anyone left, maybe not Harbinger and his sheer mass, but Tyler was who terrified me. Tyler. A small inkling of guilt began to drip-drip-drip from a leaking faucet in my head down into my heart. If leaving the boy for dead actually resulted in his death I didn't know how I would go about forgiving myself.

With the way this fight was going, I probably wouldn't have time to find out. Maleficent was too strong, too strong even for her similarly brooding counterpart fighting alongside me. And for whatever reason, she purely charged at me, refusing to even open her mouth. Maybe I was thankful for that much - her silky voice may have been enough to pull me out of my focus and - no. Nothing was enough to convince me to stop striking the girl until I drew every ounce of life out of her. It was what she deserved for whatever she did to Chatter. I still had not figured that out; I had witnessed his evaporation and anguish only a day before, but here he was, eternally screeching but seemingly trapped around The Dark One's being.

Her gravitational pull did not only affect unsuspecting humans but the dead, as well. And that was nothing I was a match for, not here. I couldn't help but doubt myself when compared to Beretta. If, and that was a very big "if", I managed to destroy her and release the souls of the damned out of her ironclad grasp, I would kiss myself silly. It was so improbable and so unlikely, though, that it just might have been plausible.

I wanted to get out of this Arena now, to rewatch the reels of this fight, to see how and why my opponent had found control of the fallen, had created an earthly prison for the uneasy ones that should've been allowed to pass over fairly and were instead confined to Beretta's body. And if I couldn't make it out, if I couldn't sit down and watch myself remove the head from the beast, I wanted her to have done the same to me.

"Yours was the kiss of death," I said, wiping my hand up my dampened leg and tracing my red and oozing fingers across my lips. I hoped she could see me mimic her signature lipstick with the liquids she procured from my body. I hoped she could see nothing else ever again. I hoped she burned.

attacks beretta
nGPkwI16glaive
shallow cut on stomach, 4.0 (3.0 bc fck berettas armor)

glaive

[Kire]

i'm the peel on which you slip, i'm a pin in every hip
i'm the thorn in your side, makes you wriggle and writhe

Third Person, First Person, Says, Thinks

There are pieces of bone on the ground that don't belong to any of the three fighters. In two strikes he had destroyed two pieces of her macabre armor, though more skeletons clung to her flesh besides her own and held her upright and mounted. Soon he would tear those down as well and she would truly fall. Let her fall beneath the hooves of the very horse she rides. The beast had a wild look in its dark eyes, beyond any control Beretta might try to exert. She had yet another opponent, all the better for him and the new Queen.

Heather was once again struck by the current Queen's clawed weapon, a red stroke along her thigh. The Queens could clash and he would deliver the final blow. With a quick strike, Heather removed the last of the bone Queen's chest armor and left a small wound in her wake. Eventually, eventually, those little wounds would add up to Beretta's demise.

The screaming of a dying animal gurgles into nonexistence before being swept away in the wind. For a moment he heard the hiss and snap of a crocodile and felt a surge of energy. His companion was here, and she was still fighting from whereever she had been dragged to before. Sneering at Beretta, he raised his hook to her and moved it in front of his neck as though miming slitting his own throat. The gleaming curve sat a ways away from his flesh but his message was clear. He would see her dead, and he would see that she lost her head. This was the last day of Queen Beretta's reign.

Beside him, Heather clutched at her latest wound. She spoke words but he paid them no mind. what she said was of no consequence to him and so he simply left her to fight or die. One thing he knew was that Beretta would be the first to perish, he would make it so.

For a second's time he wondered if his parents were watching. He hoped they were, because now they would really see who he was - no, what he was.

I am the person you used to lock the door to keep out. I am the person you hear about on the news. I am the one who leaves bodies and destruction in his wake. I am King, mother, I am King, father. You birthed a king but you did not raise him. I raised myself, and when I return home you should never come out of your home again because if you do, and if I find you, you will see first hand the skills I learned. Every. Last. One.

The look on his face is simply monstrous because that is what Someith Krearns is.

Someith Krearns is a monster.

Someith Krearns is a King.

[Attacks Beretta | Halberd]
qUZG4s95glaive
Deep Gash on Right Calf -- 8.0 damage

glaive

[L△LIA]

[attr="class","BerettaContainer1"]

[attr="class","BerettaTitle1"]

BERETTA CORLÉON

[attr="class","BerettaContent1"]Even now, you are praised. Kiss of death, the half-departed girl declares and you smile for her with your many teeth, wide and bright and beautiful. She wets her lips with blood and your lashes flutter at the flattery, small wisps of fog whirling away from your face into lion paws and a serpent's tongue. This could be mistaken for flirting if not for the sound of hatred that seizes her voice. In another lifetime Heather could have belonged to you like others who have worn the fatal mark of your mouth; stronger souls have fallen for you before.

Having absconded with the Wheel of Fortune tarot card while leaving the carnival tent that night — the girls following you home to collapse in a jumbled heap on the couch in your living room — Circe tore it into fourths and pressed a piece into everyone's hands. All of you couldn't help but laugh as she divvied out the creatures that had been drawn onto each corner: angel of Death for you, Scorpio's eagle for Elya, a stubborn bull for Spoke, and the lion for herself. A blue sphinx sat upon your piece of Fortune's Wheel, keeping Death company even as their world was torn apart.

In one of life's many great riddles, your dark heart fluttered.

Flinging an arm around Elya's neck and pulling her face toward you, she was too startled to stop you from pressing a bright red kiss to the center of her forehead. "What in hell—" Spoke's reaction time was fast enough to stop you, a screeching giggle as she shoved you Circe's way in order to save herself from whatever strange flare of affection you were possessed by. This couldn't be anything good. You went tumbling into the lioness's lap, smacking a second kiss against her stomach before her flailing hands could push you off of her. Looking down at the lipstick mark on her shirt, she gaped in shock as you rolled off her knees and onto the floor, clutching your belly and wheezing in hysterics.

"Yours was the kiss of death."

A sphinx springs forth from the corner of your smile as you throw your head back in an alleluia of laughter, having finally remembered exactly how true those words have always been. Your strange heart is pounding madly and you feel as if you might detonate with the sound of exhilaration echoing from your lungs, half a dozen pairs of pale wings bursting from your back all at once. Hawk and eagle, phoenix and angel — this world blurs with the one beyond a silvered veil. "It always has been," you call out in reply and the sphinx kisses your face as you swing your scythe. "You never knew me til now."

[attr="class","BerettaDice1"]

[1: Someith // 2: Heather]

YSIB4jGd1-2

[spins wheel horse: Someith]

[scythe]

glaive

[Shallow Cut on Right Shoulder — 3.5 damage]

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[newclass=".BerettaTitle1"]height: 18px; font-size:20px; text-transform:uppercase; margin-bottom:-6px; opacity:0.7; overflow:hidden; [/newclass]
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[newclass=".BerettaContainer1:hover .BerettaContent1"]height:250px; overflow:auto; padding:10px; text-align:justify; -webkit-transition-duration:1s;transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]
[newclass=".BerettaDice1"]font-family:georgia;font-size:10px;[/newclass]
1-2�glaive

[cameron]

this is a wip because I didnt get to go home after work lol and don't wanna hold this up but I have half a post written at home so that's nice or whatever

ok so basically Heather is like wtf beretta sucks and my tit hurts. and then she speaks and for a second Heather is like HUMINA HUMINA but she controls herself and focuses again on murdering beretta yep yep yep

attacks beretta
o_6w5Tw1glaive
miss

accuracy rerolling now

glaive
hahaha it's a block I should've held the thread up y'all.
glaive�glaive

[Kire]

and it's so easy when you're evil
this is the life, you see, the devil tips his hat to me

Third Person, First Person, Says, Thinks

The Queen and the Pawn hiss at each other with a deadly noise reminiscent of his companion. Had he not have been partnered with a crocodile he might have compared them to cats. Knowing how weak cats were, however, he much preferred the image of clashing reptiles. After all, both had scaly hearts and powerful jaws, they were two creatures vying for the same right - the right to be his Queen.

This time the Queen of bones decides on different prey and her extended talon tears at his shoulder. He is snarling now, hissing his own crocodile tune to the choir of angry tones created by the females, and possibly more bothered by the fact that Beretta had dared to strike him than the fact that he now bore yet another wound. The cut isn't deep, and the blood is already slowing by the time Heather is making her move, but the fact that Beretta deemed herself higher than him sent him further into the dark mania of his disconnected mind.

Oh he would see that crown removed from her head, he would make sure to remember the sound of it falling. The image of her dying would be his greatest treasure. The clang of weapons brought Heather back into focus as the Queen slapped away the Pawn's attack. He would have to do everything himself, it seemed, and he would do it with great relish. Twisting to keep her in sight as she cantered, he picked his spot. Yes, she would lose her crown. He would take it from her right now.

His blade went to slice off her head.

[Attacks Beretta | Halberd]
AaS4yuQJglaive
Deep Gash on Forehead -- 9.0 damage

glaive

[L△LIA]

[attr="class","BerettaContainer2"]

[attr="class","BerettaTitle2"]

BERETTA CORLÉON

[attr="class","BerettaContent2"]This was the day you felt love, but didn't know it.

Tears streamed down your cheeks because the laughter wouldn't stop. It felt as if your chest was being torn apart, each breath flaying your lungs and setting fire to your bones. Elya nudged your aching side with her foot, not quite sure what to do with her concern. "She's lost it. Rabies, maybe. We're gonna have to put her down." You might have fallen down in a fit of giggles over this if you weren't already on the floor. Instead you rolled over and curled around her foot like a child begging not to be left behind. "What are you —"

Take me with you. Trying to shake you off like a bad habit, you held on and soon everyone was cackling in hysterics all over again. After the one-eyed scorpion came tumbling down into your arms a few moments later, Circe threw herself into the fray voluntarily and Spoke wasn't far behind. The floor itself wasn't particularly comfortable, but the four of you stayed there all night.

Limbs tangled into knots, you laid your head on Circe's marked stomach and idly toyed with Spoke's hair when she wound up tucked into your side. One of Elya's legs was still trapped beneath you for safekeeping. You would never sleep that well again. You would never understand why.

If you had ever realized that love is not a heart, but something that lives in the space between them, then maybe you wouldn't have torn so many chests apart. Maybe you'd have been content to hold thin air in your hands. You might also understand why a strange part of you hurts more when Heather misses than when Someith's weapon clangs into your skull so hard that you hear thunder. A bison stampedes out of your ear and into the sun.

Queen Corléon, your wicked smile does not falter for his rage or his halberd. You continue to laugh like a mad dog, catching sight of the smoking wound on the crocodile's pale shoulder than matches the blood dripping from his own. Even if you die, yours is not a crown that can be taken. You occupy a throne of bones upon a reaper's horse, but your empire cannot be stolen by unseating you. Killing you means you will reign over the kingdom of death more than ever before.

The more he tears your body away, the more you become the air.

[attr="class","BerettaDice2"]

[1: Someith // 2: Heather]

M2KI5DuN1-2

[spins wheel horse: Someith]

[scythe]

glaive

[block // accuracy re-roll below]

glaive

[Shallow Cut on Forehead — 4.5 damage]

[newclass=".BerettaContainer2"]width:450px; height:450px; background-position:center; background-repeat: no-repeat; padding:20px;[/newclass]
[newclass=".BerettaTitle2"]height: 18px; font-size:20px; text-transform:uppercase; margin-bottom:-6px; opacity:0.8; overflow:hidden; [/newclass]
[newclass=".BerettaContent2"]width:300px; height:0px; overflow:hidden; opacity:0.8; font-size:10px; text-align:justify; padding:1px 10px 0px 10px; margin-top:6px; -webkit-transition-duration:1s; transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]
[newclass=".BerettaContainer2:hover .BerettaContent2"]height:250px; overflow:auto; padding:10px; text-align:justify; -webkit-transition-duration:1s;transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]
[newclass=".BerettaDice2"]font-family:georgia;font-size:10px;[/newclass]
1-2�glaive�glaive

[cameron]

lol headed into work and still didnt finish the last post

but

ill do it drunk tonight if someone reminds me?? ok cool

heather is like wow, screw dis, screw it all, but yea keep hitting some meth that's cool w me

she has a memory about her dumb mom probably. dumb ass mom. hate u mom.

and then she looks up into beretta's eyes, even tho she's blind and can't see, she makes direct eye contact. for like spooky purposes bc it still halloween to me and i never remembered to use that jackolantern turnip

and she

attacks beretta
|8FPF0ocglaive
well its a miss so heathers eye contact was probably with beretta's knees or some shit

also this is proof i should never filler again

finish her some meth finish herrrrglaive