The Bloodbath

[d1f ridley le roux tribsit]

[ridley le roux, intro]

Rumor had it that Ridley Le Roux couldn’t feel fear.

Of course, one shouldn’t have believed everything they were told. Rumor also had it that Ridley Le Roux was the devil incarnate, that people had seen horrific scars on her bare back from when her wings had been ripped off before she’d been damned to the hell known as Panem. Half drunk, people would whisper that that was the reason she made her deals, that was why she was such a fighter. As Ridley slipped into her ridiculous uniform she caught a glimpse of herself in a tall mirror and grimaced.

At least they’d gotten the part about the scars right.

She couldn’t help but wonder what rumors had begun to circulate about her here in the Capitol, or even among her fellow tributes. The eleven that was now tacked onto her name certainly wouldn’t let her fly under any radars, not anymore. But she supposed that was the way that she wanted it now. She might die - she was honest enough to admit that to herself - but she would not die quietly or forgotten. She refused.

If they were going to take her, they would take her bloody and shrieking, a memory seared into history.

As Ridley stepped onto the plate that would rise into the Arena, she briefly wondered if the feeling in the pit of her stomach was the same as what condemned men felt when walking to receive their sentence. She hadn’t done anything wrong - the Games were an honor, of course - and she hadn’t technically been sentenced to death, but she was already counting her breaths. Already curling and uncurling her fingers, wondering if she would even have fingers to curl in a few days.

The platform began to rise. Ridley’s heartbeat spiked painfully, her throat becoming suddenly tight. Her ribcage felt as if it was caving in. Shit. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe.

Rumor had it that Ridley Le Roux couldn’t feel fear, but that was a lie. In that moment, she was terrified.

As she began to break the surface she forced herself to remain composed despite the way that her legs suddenly felt like they were going to collapse beneath her. She focused on the way her body felt suddenly, incredibly vulnerable, flesh and bones that felt so sturdy until a broken bottle knife drove into them. She forced her breathing to steady, eyes sweeping over the scene in front of her and taking in as much information as possible.

It reminded her of how autumn always looked in storybooks, all charming muted colors and nostalgic imagery. She narrowed her focus in on the horn of plenty, an array of goods lying tantalizingly close and yet agonizingly far. As the other tributes shifted and found there bearings, Ridley slowly lowered down on her platform in a sprinting position, fingers ghosting over the cool metal. She listened to her own heartbeat, listened to herself breathe, remembered the dozens of times she’d been in this exact same position. The world had tried to kill her before. Let it try again. She wasn’t a crying little girl anymore.

Rumor had it that Ridley Le Roux couldn’t feel fear, and that was okay. Let them think she was fearless. Let them wonder if she was the devil.

The gong sounded.

She descended on the world like death itself.

[mat]

[maggie mae d10f // introduction]

maggie mae.

Seconds turn to minutes, and minutes turn into what feels like hours as Maggie’s stylist rants about some old legendary tale she’d heard since she was a little girl and how she loved that now, she could fulfill her fantasy upon to a tribute. Little Red Riding Hood. That’s the role that she’s given to play. She went on about the girl being an iconic figure for generations. The clothing that’s laid out in front of her stylist allows her to become just that girl.

The stories go on and on. She’s spoken every second of every minute that they’ve been around each other. So much so that she’s never even learned the poor girl’s name.

Maggie could, quite honestly, care less, but if it means that she can get some final motivation and kindness before being sent into the devil’s playground, she would take it in a heartbeat. Besides, being called a badass simply because of a red cloak gives her some confidence to fight, even if it’s from a woman who’s never needed to actually have some badassery in her life.

In addition, her stylist never mentions the death of Little Red Riding Hood, which gives her some hope that she might fulfill a prophecy or legacy, simply by letting red cover her from head to calves.

She wraps the red cloth around from shoulder to shoulder and then lets the stylist tie it around her neck. It goes well with the faded red button-down shirt she wears underneath and the black pantaloons she covers her legs with. A hat covers her head, but if she has anything to say about that, it’ll be gone the moment she starts to run to the Cornucopia. If anything, at least she’ll be warm. On the table beside them lies accessories that bring her some memory of home: little trinkets, feathers, scarves and bandanas, and necklaces.

She grabs a bandana, one that matches the color of the cloak exactly, and ties it around her mouth. Little Red, but with a twist. It seemed a bit too lovey-dovey for her liking. Maybe with a few accessories, she could appear more like a bandit or something. After she has it on, she turns to the stylist, who makes some ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs!’ in approval of her choices. In the mirror, all she can see is her hair and her eyes. An aesthetic of banditry, or simply just being an assassin. Yeah, she likes that a lot.

She almost walks away from the table, but a few of the other pieces catch her eye. The pictures. They’re of all the past tributes from Ten. Bella. Lorenzo. Ollie.

"Can I?" she asks, before getting a nod of approval from the stylist.

She wraps each one of them around her neck, tucking them firmly between the buttons of her shirt. It's no secret that she pretends to hate them all as a way to show her independence, but she has a soft spot for each. She has sympathy for them, and all the battles they went through. They had escaped their fate at the orphanage, just like she is now, but never returned.

She wears their miniature pictures as a hope, a prayer that there might be more than just the Hunger Games left in her, and more than just the orphanage left in every kid that remains.

The final touches are just ensuring that everything on her body is centered and presentable. Because of course, tightening the hood enough to choke her is the best final words her stylist can give: I hope you can't choke on this, but I need to preserve my image, so have fun!

Maggie walks into the tube where she'd soon rise. When the glass door closes in front of her, she immediately loosens the cloak, keeping it on to preserve the costume idea but just enough to where she wouldn't choke before she even got to the top.

And then, she rises. She always found it ironic how the tributes always rise. It's silly. All the good boys and girls are going to hell here. It's the exact opposite from Pascal's Wager, where one pretends to be good in their final days just in case there's some sort of heaven. Here, the tributes act on the contrary: act as hellish in possible, not giving a fuck whether heaven and hell exist. If there is, however, they'd all surely go to hell.

She rises into a place with a cold breeze. The cornucopia is wrapped in hand-woven fabric, definitely something you might see in District Ten. All around her are her opponents, assorted in a rainbow of colors. Soon, all they will see is red.

The numbers go down, one by one, and Maggie gets ready to make a run for the center. Her instincts told her to stay, not to run.

3..
2..
1..

She tosses the hat that she promised to throw away to the side and lets her hair fly.

She runs.

[maggie mae d10f enters the bloodbath]

[panda scope {4a} sitter]

( d4f bell hailsham | introduction )

walking in my sleep
like the naked trees
will they wake up again?
do they sleep? do they dream?

The sun had barely peeked through her window on the fourth floor and Bell was already up mentally preparing herself for the day ahead. She had prepared her whole life for this moment. But they hadn’t prepared her to win.

They prepared her to die.

Everyday she was at the mansion, Death crept closer and closer. With each passing day he neared, and she prepared for the day that they would tell her she was not good enough. The day Death would finally take over.

But she decided to take things into her own hands. She takes orders from no one. No queen is ever told what to do, she is in control of her own destiny. Now Death practically sits upon her shoulders, but she will not be taken by him.

She will be his queen.

They led her through a maze of hallways covered with metal and not a window in site. It was sterile and unwelcoming and she couldn’t help but wonder if this is what every building in the Capitol is like.

Harlem busied around her telling her when to turn, when to look up, when to look down, when to strip. She had to do minimal work but it was exhausting just watching him run around her in circles. His job was to make her look outstanding, but soon she would be covered in blood, and the only people who will be able to recognize her are her victims.

He put the final touches on her and held up a mirror with a smile on his face, clearly proud of his work. Her outfit was ridiculous and she did her best not to roll her eyes. The Gamemakers seemed to enjoy putting them in the most impractical items of clothing. Her pants were way to baggy and the hat on her head was definitely not a crown. But when you focused on her face you can see what an exquisite job he really did. There was a complex array of braids under her bonnett that kept it pulled black. The eyeliner he smudged around her eyes made her look dangerous even in such a ridiculous costume. And of course, he topped it off with her signature red lipstick. She looked outstanding, and it was all thanks to Harlem.

A smile played on her lips and she quickly hugged him before pulling away.

”Thank you, truly,”

A tear slipped down his cheek and he had to brush it away. He rummaged through his bag before closing his hand around something and turning to her. He opened it up and a glittering tube of red lipstick sat in his palm.

”It’s my favorite one,”

The biggest smile she’s given since she’s been here crossed her face. She grabbed it and placed it in her pocket before giving him a kiss on the cheek. With a little wave she turned and walked into her tube, just as the countdown began.

Twenty-three people had to die, and she would not be one of them.

She lowered herself and prepared to sprint.

It was time to take back her kingdom.

Time to prove why she wore a crown

feel it as the wind
strokes my skin
i am moved by the chill
hear the winter bird sing

( bell hailsham enters the bloodbath )

[Kire]

[Curtus Dolor | Intro]

Curtus Dolor
When the lights come on, when the crowd goes wild
Rip the roof up off of here, take it to the stratosphere

This was a day of lasts, too, much like the day of the reaping had been. He woke up in the training center for the last time, exited the District three suite for the last time, and was ushered onto the roof. Hauled into the hover craft and stabbed with a large needle for a tracker, he was placed in a seat to take his last view of the Capitol. There was no knowing what was in store for him in the arena, no way to find out until it was far too late. He wouldn't know what things were last for some time, and by the time he missed them he would most likely be dead.

The ride was deathly quiet. Everyone seemed to be concentrating on their own miseries, worries, strategies, or hateful thoughts. The tension between them all was terrible and heavy. They all knew that each person in here would either die or watch them die. Some people had some security in allies, but he was not one of them. There had been a number of loners in this group, not a few keeping to themselves and hiding their talents from everyone else. Maybe he would find someone once the dust settled but that was relying on him actually surviving the Bloodbath.

The death and carnage brought on the first day was no mystery to anyone. While some Games led with little or no bloodshed in the beginning, it would cycle around later. Past Games had seen nearly half of the tributes die before anyone had left the cornucopia. There was no telling what would happen this time, not until it had all ended.

They were herded into the underground space, broken apart by Peacekeepers and roughly guided to whichever room had been designated for them. Curt kept his head down, seeing no use in trying to fight or attempting to flee. Any past tries had ended poorly and there was no point in subjecting himself to the wrath of the two men in white gripping his arms almost hard enough to bruise.

Orland greeted him with only a little less than his usual cheer, shooing the Peacekeepers off. The door banged shut behind him and the lock sounded as loud as a gunshot. No, there was no hope of leaving that way. The only way out was up. Up through the tube that would take him into the arena. This was the last place he would see before then, and the arena would be the last place he would ever see. Orland's face was probably the last friendly one he would ever know, and his heart squeezed at the thought. He couldn't rely on anyone in there, just as he couldn't rely on anyone to deal with his step-father, not even his own mother. He was alone, but it wasn't like he hadn't been alone before.

Orland was surprisingly quiet as he dressed him, only speaking to offer him choices between items. He was surprised the man hadn't made the decisions by himself, but the opportunity to provide input gave him a bit of courage he didn't know he needed. Trying to thing tactically, he went with what would be more comfortable, what would move better, what would give him an edge in the arena. Hopefully he chose right.

With his final ensemble complete, he looked at himself in the mirror. This probably was the last mirror he would see ever - another last to contemplate. Morbid curiosity got the better of him as he wondered what his last last might be. He reached out a hand to shake Orland's but the man gripped him in a quick hug. Then he was ushered into the tube to be sent into the arena. As the glass closed around him he took one last look at Orland and the man solemnly waved. Rising into the darkness of the tube, Curt watched the last of the outside world disappear into nothingness.

--- --- --- ---

He heard the sound of the wind first. It whistled and howled above his head and he wondered if they might have dropped them into a tornado. The hat on his head lifted a bit and he gripped the brim in one hand. Why would they bother giving them hats if the moment they entered the arena they would be blown off of their head. Light reached him next, natural-looking and almost sunny, though a cold kind of sun. As his head crested ground-level he marveled at the world laid out before him.

Autumn was here, or so it seemed. A cornucopia modeled after those in ancient books and stories sat in the middle, looking fragile and delicate. Surely the fighting would destroy it. Items, treasures, tools, and everything else he might think of were scattered within and without the giant structure. Trying to take stock of what he might want or need, he spent perhaps a little too long identifying objects rather than looking around himself. The sound of the clock ticking down came to him and he looked up to find that he had already missed thirty seconds. Half of the obligatory frozen minute was up and he still didn't have enough of a plan.

Abandoning trying to plan for the people around him, he focused once again on the supplies out in front of him. Grab n' go. Still, he couldn't hope to avoid all the fighting. Clenching his fists he tried to center himself. He had trained as much as he could and he would use his experience as well as possible. Even so, the chances of him surviving this brawl - let alone unscathed - were so slim. Maybe he should just swing for the hills and try to take people down with him.

Just like him. No, he couldn't do that. He couldn't beat someone simply to make himself feel better. He wasn't his step-father.

Ten seconds left and he used the time to take one long deep breath in an out. Focus. He had to keep his head in this, both literally and figuratively. The last second was left and he let himself enjoy this final moment of peace.

Then is was over far to soon. The first of the fighting had begun.

Curtus Dolor enters the Bloodbath

^{lyrics from When The Lights Come On by Asking Alexandria}

[heather - d2 [mylee]]

[kirk bauer; introduction]

The stories my father told always ended up in the exact same place.

A different hero in perhaps a different place. Different villains with variations on the same type of evil—selfish and unwarranted, easy to root against. It’s so easy a trap to fall into, the way his voice lilts and the intonation rises and falls. The voice of my brother soft, even at fifteen, What happens next? As if buying into the wonder will change something about the way the narrative progresses. There is nothing new to be said, only variations of the same story and a human mind that will never quite fully realize the extent of repetition. My father builds houses of paper and speaks softly to the walls, beginning:

Once, there was a boy, not quite a man, but not still a child. He stood tall, with broad shoulders and a chin that sloped down to a point. You could always tell it was him from a distance because of the way he walked, shoulders back and sauntering, like he had somewhere to be but was in no rush to get there.

My feet feel heavy on the platform, as though they want to be stuck but cannot quite commit to doing so. This morning, I watched Rabbit cross the room and wanted to shake her hand, to tell her I was hoping she could find a way to not be afraid. However, I lost my thoughts among the sound of my own feet on metal floor, and by the time I managed to refocus, she was already inside the tall cylinder of glass, closed off from me and the rest of the world.

This boy, he was faced with a dilemma. It was one he created for himself, and no one was exactly sure why he felt so obligated to make this problem. He had an average life before—he did honest work, he loved his brother—what more could he want from this world? How far could he push his desires before they became selfish? The boy decided to risk his life for that of someone he didn’t know, and how noble of him. He couldn’t seem to control the world he had brought into existence, so he traded it for one of pure chaos, of risks and gambles beyond the scope of the imagination.

I see my reflection in the curved glass. I look like shit. My eyes are retreating further and further into my skull and my skin looks like it’s greying. I wanted to think I haven’t died yet, that I can’t experience this without actually seeing blood. Maybe this is the way to approach it, all collectively stitched and unbroken. The jolt of the platform rising interrupts the current, and removes my face from myself, forces me to stare at an unfamiliar landscape, the protruding horn of the cornucopia staggering into my field of vision. I stand dumbfounded for a moment, thinking of absolutely nothing at all.

He wanted to be a hero, but how silly it was of him to think that this risk would eventually turn into a reward he could reap in this lifetime. He didn’t know this—didn’t know that there was something deep inside him that stirred to be recognized,

I look for Rabbit, who told me that she would tackle this alone, that she didn’t trust anyone to stay loyal for long enough. I think this is true of everyone, but I am wiling to place my bets aside and take the risk. I’d rather have an acquaintance slit my throat in the middle of the night than fall to an unfamiliar face.

The band of three that I have gotten to know seems like an okay group for this task. I do not think they have swords ready for the back, but I believe one of them would potentially kill me if I asked it of them.

Bell, Tommy, and Efram—new names to my tongue, but so familiar so quickly. When my feet pound off the platform, I still do not know what I can ask of them.

[kirk bauer enters the bloodbath]

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

[8M Reyes Calvo | Introduction]

Option four is finally lying down its foundations. Maybe it would have been easier going back and repairing that window or living off the scraps that I earn from delivering goods during the night. Even hopping the fence probably had better odds of my survival than the bloodbath that will be creeping by in a few hours. Nope. Options one to three reap no final reward like option four. I have signed over my life with very low odds of getting a return, but the bonus just sends dollar signs flashing before my eyes.

Oh, but holy shit, can I kill someone? It is damn too late to suddenly ask that question.

Loneliness will not be my end, the words of wisdom that have followed me the past few days have been abided by. Two careers to stand at the front, the District Seven girl who is intimidating as hell and I will just chill behind as they do all the dirty work. They will play me as their meat shield, but I have been lured by their false sense of security. I have always had a knife to my back, and I have dodged it for so long…

My funeral outfit is laid out on my bed by the avoxes, each piece looks comfier than the tight leathers they had me in for the opening ceremony, but its theme is nostalgic to the picture books that my aunt used to keep in the kitchen cupboard. Black pantaloons patched up with a tartan material, likely hand stitched by my neighbours back home. I likely smuggled the material one night; the plaid does look pricey. I pull the woollen grey socks up to my knees, but they quickly fall to my ankles, too baggy for my spider legged calves. The hood of the cloak is much comfier than the hat that is on offer, but I am told to wear it for now. It will be the first thing I ditch at the podium, a long with my life.

Now it is time for the long march, the breakfast hall seems silent and the time in it scarce. My plate is filled with pastries and fruit, enough rations to fill my stomach for a few days, I even finish a bowl of porridge just to fill enough space in my gut to keep the energy flowing. Uncle Tom had his worth, ”Reyes, eat a big breakfast and you go the full day without worrying about your next meal.”

Before I have even placed my spoon onto the table, the empty bowl of porridge is swiped away from my table and I pulled up by an escort. This is it then. It is a long walk, too long if I must say. I can act out like I did when boarding the train, but nobody is watching me now. A simple two signed off the attention from me, I will have my opportunity in that arena. I can prove that a score is just nullified, the sponsorship will come rolling in for sure. And come on, the Capitol love Shelby, the Hope family and Eight. Give me some fans and fuck that Rasoio, her relative proved that family is just reaping fodder to add to the list of the dead.

”Can I have a sip of whiskey before you send the elevator up?”

I say to the escort and the others accompanying them as I am pushed through the glass doors. There is no answer from any of them, a boring sort really. This is it then, the beginning of option four, the very long path that could easily lead to nowhere. There will be a fork in this path probably, one direction will lead to an empty grave and the other to the house next door to Shelby…damn I best get myself a sense of direction.

Not much is ticking by inside my body, dormant emotions that cannot decide on what they are doing. I am so empty about the possibilities of it all just ending right now. Damn Reyes, can’t I even smile? Not even a frown. Just a blank look as I stare down all the others, their faces clearly painting a picture on what is going on inside. It will make it harder to kill them with faces like that. Young ones with tears down their face but the psycho crazies with smiles, I will not have to think twice to drive a knife into their back.

Well, let’s get it over with then…

Reyes enters

[Deleted]

Tommy O'Kelly/Intro



“What the fuck are these clothes? I know I’m not from the Capitol, but even then, we wouldn’t wear this.” I look at this pile of clothes in front of me provided by the Gamemakers. not sure what to even think. Dio laughs has he picks up what appears to be an old timey top hat of sorts that sat on top of a pile of dusty rose and black colored clothes. “It appears to be some sort of ancient pilgrim outfit. These clothes must have been worn, hundreds, if not a thousand years ago.” He explains this as he tells me to me to strip to my underclothes. At least I get that last comfort of not having to be completely naked in front of him, even though I totally wouldn’t mind in a different context. I’m not sure I’ll ever get to see that context again though. Once I stand in front of him in my undershirt and pants, he gives me a pair of black, what feels like wool pants and has me put them on. They are uncomfortable to say the least, yet somehow fit perfectly. He keeps handing me more and more clothes to put on, and by the end I look like some demented version of Little Red Riding Hood. I look in the mirror and take in my new outfit for the rest of my life. A dusty rose button up shirt is tucked into the black wool pants, held up with black suspenders. The same rose color is dyed onto wool socks that cover my feet, and I have this awful square toed shoe with a brass buckle on them, which are very uncomfortable. This is all tied together by a black cloak with a black and red plaid sewn on in certain places and the black old timey top hat. There’s supposed to be some ridiculous circular neck ruffle but I’m taking it off the moment I can.

I look over to Dio, and we share one last look as we both know what will happen. He’s become one of my only friends since I got here, and even though I have my alliance, I know that it will last, only a week at most, if we’re lucky enough to live that long. An electronic voice comes on the intercom, announcing that there is one-minute left before launch. I start to cry as he holds me. I know I wanted an escape from my old life, but this is not what I had in mind. I was thinking about going to run off into the wild, maybe go into another district and start a new life, not to go die in the Games. He holds me in his arms as I get this all out of my system in the last minute that I have left in the real world. The voice on the intercom comes back on to announce that it is time to get into the tubes, and I wipe the tears from my eyes.

“I don’t want to die” I tell him, my voice still shaking from my minute cry session. ‘I know,” he responds, genuine pain fills his voice as he turns me around and helps me into the tube.

“Fight Tommy, fight for what you want.” Dio tells me this as my door closes and I start to rise. It’s not going to be a good look, my eyes red and puffy as I rise into the Arena. It doesn’t matter now, what’s done is done. Now all I can do is get ready to survive the Bloodbath as I continue to rise up. When my head finally breaks out of the tube, the first thing I notice is the basket weave, handmade Cornucopia. My body soon follows, and I have some time to take everything in. It looks like we are in some sort of autumnal themed Arena, with trees that have a variety of colors ranging from yellow to brown, and a patch of some sort. I lost track of time and didn’t even notice the countdown had already begun until it was 10 seconds left. I snap my attention to the center of our circle, trying to find what I need, and trying to find my allies. I have to look around at the place later, right now it’s time to fight.

[Tommy enters the Bloodbath]

[ghosty]

[ intro ]

efram.

He mistook the time by the brightness in the well-lit room. Home always just seemed darker. Frustrated, he turned towards the clock: hours before he had to be. Efram always loved watching the sunrise. Here, it just seemed so artificial, like looking at a screen. Like the ones he'd seen himself on, over the past few days.

Still, this could be the last sunrise he'd ever see. He wouldn't want to miss that, not for anything. Efram saw the sky start its slow climb from blue to red, sat at his window. Ripred, he wanted the sun to never rise, wanted to savour every moment of it.

He was whisked away too soon, before he was met with a glass tube in front of him. The beginning of the end, looking down at his weird clothes. He stepped into the tube, and closed his eyes. Breathe in, out.

Bong.

[ efram enters the bb ]

[pearl mcclain d4 [ryan]]

Oct 12, 2019 11:00:11 GMT -5 pearl mcclain d4 [ryan] said:

[Charisma Duke || Intro || No Attack]

[Charisma Duke || Attack #1 || ####]

The commotion made it hard to see, but there was a faint air here that you did not like. It made you uncomfortable, but you had to keep going unless you wanted to die in this moment. In that moment, freezing would have probably been an acceptable thing to do, but you promised yourself, and three other people that you would not do that. You would fight, and there was nothing more you could do then just do that. You beelined for a bag and threw it over your shoulder as you realized that there was pain flaring on different parts of your body. You might as well do some damage as well. So you swung your hands.

[Charisma attacks Penelope Marcet with hands || Unarmed]
kOVpa1HUG9unarmed
[5123 -- Bruised Left Calf -- 2 damage
(Unarmed)]

[grabs bag]

unarmed

[Arrows]

Oct 12, 2019 11:00:06 GMT -5 Arrows said:

</div>

[Torren Jaroux / Attack One / 5008]

 

From the moment your feet leave the pedestal, you never look back. Before you, the hand woven wings of the cornucopia call out to you in a song of sinister seduction. As you sprint a smile slips swiftly across the curves of your cheeks. Your heart is racing. Your adrenaline is expanding. You can finally feel the force of freedom, the full force of being alive. And you don't let the shadow you see emerging stop such a surreal sensation.

Torren Jaroux attacks Laurel Rasoio || unarmed
unarmed
{Miss -- 0.0}

unarmedy|KWu0Sihx

[Noah Vau - D2 (Cato)]

Oct 12, 2019 11:00:07 GMT -5 Noah Vau - D2 (Cato) said:

[Ubbe Hammerfell | Intro]

[Ubbe Hamemrfell | Flee]


Instead of running towards the cornucopia, I'm running away from it like my brothers have done so many times before. They've figured out their own way in this mess, and I can't think of any reason to run towards a fight right now. No strategy behind it at all. Nothing, and that's my thing right now. I want to find a place and strategize and then make my mark known. No fear or nothing. I just want to stand my ground and fight when the time is right. I've learned that being cocky and thinking I can control the bloodbath would only end in pain and suffering. I want to win. I want to wear the crown. Most importantly, I want to live. This isn't how I die. I'm strong, and I will do whatever it takes to survive.


Ubbe Flees the bloodbath

[lance]

Oct 12, 2019 11:00:11 GMT -5 lance said:

sapphire decaria | intro post | no attack

sapphire decaria | attack one | 5057

It’s hard to run in the damned getup that Colt put you in. But you suppose that anything is better than heels, and at the very least it isn’t that.

Besides, a quick look tells you that uniforms for the most part are matching anyways, so if you’re going to have to suffer, at least everyone else is as well.

Someone gets in your way, and your heart skips a beat.

sapphire attacks laurel; fists

7uG6P9mJ3Gunarmed

5057 -- Broken Right Shin -- 7.0 damage


picks up inferior cornucopia

unarmed

[*]

Oct 12, 2019 11:00:17 GMT -5 * said:

Prismarine / Intro / No attack

Her head swam with the effort to wake. The obvious amount of anxiety had befallen upon her in such a quick motion that she'd fallen to the ground. It was to escape the harsh reality, that death might seek her first that she fell into an unconscious state. Her cousin made her wake though, and how much time that had passed was definitely uncertain, but she rose as quickly as possible and even though her eyes couldn't straighten she stumbled off the platform and surveyed the area where she was at. Who was fighting around her. Why she felt frozen in place and why in the hell did she feel like an absolute failure.

"Soul. Red. I'm still alive." Her voice cocooned her heart and helped her leg move. It was slow, unsteady after the unplanned fall, but one foot after another, she finally made some distance. "I can. I can do this." She bit her lip and forced her arms to push her forward. Around her, chaos erupted and this was one capitol festivity that she didn't want to be part of.


[Prismarine Flees]

[ kaitlin ]

[kap]

Oct 12, 2019 11:00:19 GMT -5 kap said:

[D9M Fangor Redtail | Intro]

[D9M Fangor Redtail | Flee]


Fangor Redtail

As people ran off of their pedestals and into the chaos of the bloodbath, I was running away. I didn't want to fight these people yet. There was too much going on. There was so much action and so many people that I might not even know who had killed me if I died, or who I had killed if I killed someone. That's why I ran. I ran away from the cornucopia, not toward it, wanting to escape with my life.

[D9M Fangor Redtail flees the bloodbath]

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

Oct 12, 2019 11:00:23 GMT -5 napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. said:

[ Vargen Forrester | Intro ]

The air was thick with terror and dread; it rested bitterly on my tongue, as though it were rotted wine. The world swirled, a flurry of dark figurines. Focus, I told myself and dug red moon-circles upon my palms. The pain brought my focus back with a sharpness that overwhelmed me, but I could see clearly now, openings of skins, welds to be broken in once more. The beast inside of me howled: all teeth, all hunger.

Go and tear them to shreds.
I balled my hands into fists.

To shreds. To shreds. I will. 

（ Vargen attacks ❛ Ubbe Hammerfell ❜ ）

QCvLfh84nvunarmed

(n/a)

（ Vargen picks up item one ）

unarmed