The Bloodbath

[cass]

May 14, 2020 20:32:05 GMT -5 cass said:

henry hughes | post 12 | no attack

henry hughes | post 13 | no attack

HENRY -

Sometimes I don't sleep at night
I hear the wind in the moaning trees
I wonder how my child will fare
With wars and bombs and thieves

For a long moment it’s just the two of them sitting in silence and staring at the massacre before them. It’s familiar to an extent, dead bodies littering the ground is nothing new to Henry, but he’s not used to seeing people being hacked apart with swords. Guns had been the weapon of choice, and in all honesty a bullet to the chest or head was a much quicker way to go. He could see a girl wandering around without any arms and Henry was thankful that so far he wasn’t missing any bits.

Remus offered to tell him about anyone he might know, and Henry shook his head. There was no one, his parents were dead, his entire squad was dead. There was no one, he was it, he was all that was left of the life he had lived and when he died it’d be the end. His parents had no siblings, he was an only child. And his name was only remembered by the guys who he had fought with, all dead. Henry was already a ghost, and all he needed to do now, was embrace his impending death.

“And Henry,” he looked over to Remus, in time to see the boy meet his gaze and say, “fuck them.” Henry laughed, pressing a hand to his stomach, ignoring the pain that spread through his chest like fire. Remus was right, fuck ‘em. They’d been playing with him since he joined the army and they’d been destroying and torturing him since he was captured.

Yeah. Fuck ‘em.

Now it was Henry’s turn to listen, and he watched as Remus grabbed a fistful of the sand. He spoke about watching his family be executed, one after the other whilst he watched. He could see that it pained Remus to talk about it, but Henry was so used to hearing about it and seeing it that it was just another horror story. He hadn’t suffered when his parents had died, and so he struggled to understand how others felt that kind of pain. So he chose to say nothing, instead letting Remus talk and fill in the silence.

Remus straightened, before pulling himself upwards. Henry watched with weary eyes, as Remus turned and offered him a hand.

"Come on Henry, the fight is almost over. Let's say our goodbyes."

Henry smiled, reaching up to grab the hand that was offered to him, he groaned as he was pulled to his feet, his body protesting the movement. He wouldn’t mind it, he decided, if Remus killed him. He could see the other tributes and none of them (except Mr. lob of your head guy) were fighters. If he was going to go down there was no one better than a rebel.

“I’d be honoured for you to fight me,” he straightened, this time offering his own hand to Remus to shake. “There ain’t many people in this mess that have been through what we have, I think my squad would approve of this choice.” Henry smiled, he could picture them clapping him on the back, hollering at him and telling him to try his best. He could remember holding Mason’s hand as he bled out from a bullet to his lung, and he knew that if someone was going to off him he’d want it to be Remus.

“Hit me.”

- HUGHES.

[This instance (Henry/Remus) of posting without three posts in between was approved by Lalia, please contact her if you have any questions]

[sidney]

May 13, 2020 22:01:27 GMT -5 sidney said:

jasen hargrove / 10th post - no attack / none

M A N or M O N S T E R

Some knight in shining armor you make.

She's funny, he'll give her that. Even hobbling around on one leg, she's quick on her feet and even more quick with her comebacks. Maybe it's the adrenaline stemming from her immense blood loss or maybe she was just born with a dagger for a tongue, but either way her words slice like the very blade in his hand — and he relishes the way she cuts.

Maybe I'll see you later. Promise not to come at you from behind next time.

He nods in her direction, only calling out to her once she turns to leave. "I can't make the same promise, baby. But I can guarantee you'll like it." Jasen offers her a wink, a part of him hating himself for the intensity with which he watches her saunter away. The truth is either of them could die the moment they part. You should have done something. The truth is he'll probably never see her again. You fucking idiot, you should have kissed her when you had the chance.

A new figure approaches, though, and pulls him out of his entirely inappropriate smitten stupor, and calls for his attention, looking to have the same ailment his last opponent did. Though Jasen can't look at this one in pride; he hadn't cleaved the boy's leg, but maybe he'd get lucky enough to take the only good one he has left.

You look like you're having fun.

"Some might say not enough," he grins, though his brows furrow as he turns around completely, the sun causing him to squint in order to get a better look—in order to lock eyes. "Others might say..." he trails off, gaze falling to the dead boy at his feet and the leg of that beautiful girl still held in his grasp. "...too much."

( no attack, vibes with arc as september walks up )

[shrimp]

May 14, 2020 2:29:01 GMT -5 shrimp said:

[zephyr] kestell | post #6 | 1039

[zephyr] kestell | post #7 | —

[attr="class","w460"]

_\|/_

There is one second to react, as they bark at you and charge, sword blinding you with the sheer audacity. Yet you are still bewildered, trying to replay the last sentence in your head. Did you say something wrong? Can you try again? And turning the problem in your mind, you turn the wrong way around, duck down instead of sideways, as karma deals you a thunderous blow.

You grunt, dropping quickly, your knee landing hard on the ground as your free hand moves to press deep against the wall. Your fingers clutch stone, dive into grooves and smash your fingernails against the marble—because you need anything to distract yourself from the agony that begins to sweep in, an ocean's roar encapsulating your senses. You are nine again, at a beach a half-day's travel from One, knocked over by a ravenous wave. You tumble, lost in the foam, the currents unrelenting and the sand rough against your skin. And as before, you do not scream; you will drown otherwise. Instead you slowly suck air into lungs compressed by a clenched stomach, and hear the beating of your heart as drumbeats, reverberating.

It is a good ten seconds before the silence, and your attacker's questions, finally register. With a constricted breath you lift your head, feel the sickly warm fluid that coats the back of your neck. They are still standing there, to their right another line striking across the marble facade.

"Who do you think built this?" they asked, and you see yourself: ten years old with a stack of books that measure half your height, full of energy with nowhere to go, not knowing your own strength but marching forward regardless. You see your stubbornness in their brow and hear your remorse in their voice and think, and know, that your parents should have gotten a medal for the handful they had to deal with. When... No. If. If you make it home, you will sit them down and make them a simple meal and keep them close. You will work to subdue the bellows, the gusts, the remorseless bluster you subjected them to. You will act with the grace that they deserved to witness.

And if the one in front of you makes it home, you hope if they make all your mistakes, they will have the chance to fix them.

"Does it—" matter? You stop. Take a moment. Because despite your immediate leaps, your shifting blame to the top, they ask for a reason. Your head aches, but you do not put pressure on the wound; your hands are caked in grime, brittle stone and sand and you suspect something much worse. The world spins. You tighten your grip.

"An artist, who was blinded by spite. They're bold: they stole the style of a nation that they aim to surpass. But one was the sun. The other is not yet a candle." But that isn't what was asked.

"The font is formal," you say as you turn your gaze, run your fingers along the facets. "The serifs here act as an anchor, as if this place, these names, have always existed. And the marble is black and white, no room for complexities." Your voice sounds hoarse, and you find yourself having meandered towards an adjacent thought instead of the one you were meant to address.

"Stone's likely from Two. But just the materials—if they worked with the district, it would be unfair, wouldn't it? To give them advance notice of the show?" Glancing at them, your voice is quiet, placid. You wonder if they note the acid under the shallows.

"The names... Maybe some are Capitolites who needed a paycheck. Or wanted the fame. Or hated you, and hated me, because we dared to exist."

"But maybe some were like us, caught in a fight, made to dance."

It takes a while to stand. You are unsteady on your feet. And when you swing again, it is with an unspoken care, with the loud strike against stone before sailing towards bone.

"I hope it helps. But it's a theory," you admit. "Not an answer."

[zephyr] attacks alexei | sword
9DMJUUn5ROsword
1095; dg right forearm, +8.0 dmg

"Any guesses?"

[newclass=".w460"]width:460px;[/newclass]
sword

[D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler]]

May 14, 2020 15:17:48 GMT -5 D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler] said:

[D11F Daisy Holliday | Post #11 | No Attack ]

[D11F Daisy Holliday | Post #12 | 5189]

[googlefont="Great Vibes"][googlefont="Caveat"]

Daisy Holliday

12. Plucked Petals

When she sees me she wipes her face and says "I'm sorry - I'm Juno. I'm looking for the best way out in the worst places. What are you looking for?" Damn, that might have been the most poetic thing I've ever heard another human being say in my entire eighteen years of life. I knew right then that this girl was dangerous; a doer and a thinker. Double the trouble. Even her name was fantastic; Juno. Part of me that wasn't dying in the Hunger Games decided that'd be a pretty baby name.

A victor-worthy name.

Shoot, I'm in a whole world of danger.

I can't back down at this point though; even if I walk away, even if I try to wait it out until everyone else kills each other, there'd still be someone left that I'd need to kill before they killed me. Either way, between Juno and me, at least one of us was gonna end up dead.

I decide to be neighbourly and introduce myself back. "The name's Daisy. Daisy Holliday." I'm trying to sound dangerous when I say it but I'm breathing like I just ran across Panem and back. Death is banging on my door but I'm holding it shut and turning the lock. It ain't my time just yet.

I need to think a hot minute about the second part of her question. What am I looking for? My first thought is I'm looking to kill you all and win and get Whelan Fray to fall in love with me for being a badass, but that's about as poetic as chicken scratch. Juno has a way with words; I want to sound cool like that too.

I find myself thinking about my family, and Whelan Fray, and Hazel Sloane, and the girl who got her head chopped off, and the little girl I killed, and the boy who helped me up, and Juno standing before me. I think about the old me, working on the farm, taking care of my siblings, worrying only about boys. And I think about the girl I am now; beaten, bloodied, armless, deadly.

I think I know what I want to say. 'Cause whether I drop dead or win it all there's really only one thing I'm after.

"I'm looking for an end."

Daisy headbutts Juno (unarmed attack)
_HNRwk2LPtunarmed
RESULT: 5189 - Block (Unarmed)

unarmed

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

May 14, 2020 14:01:37 GMT -5 thompson harvard - d2b - arc said:

[ d5m september yorgos | post #9 | no attack ]

[ d5m september yorgos | post #10 | no attack ]

{ september }

Octavia liked reading books that made people think. She liked the ones that came before the war, because in her mind, the government filtered the old ones out of our minds. They didn’t want the ideas that made us rebel the first time to be available. We obviously didn’t have those types of books in public libraries, however, there was a lady in this old ranch style home a few miles down the road. The walk was typically 10-15 minutes to get to her doorstep but Octavia didn’t mind. All she wanted was the books. Every Thursday morning she’d pull on her jacket and then head out the door. We never had to ask after a certain point because we just knew.

Anyway, she liked the books that made people wonder about the psychological effects certain events in life had on people. One of those is the effects of war on the lone soldier. Not only are the veterans from the opposing side of the war a danger to themselves, the loneliness and the thoughts that start to infiltrate your mind during that loneliness is toxic. Especially at this point of these Games, for me, I felt like a lone soldier. I had nobody, I hadn’t proved myself to anyone. I don’t seem to be the biggest of brutes, but I’m not dead yet, so what did I have to prove worthy of this title? After leaving the girl from 11, I didn’t know what to think or hear. Or do. I was alone. I didn’t want to attack any of the struggling lambs, but I didn’t want to attack the innocent.

But I didn’t want to die. I was so, so scared of dying. I didn’t want to leave Appa all by themself and I didn’t want to leave Argos’ rotting brain. I didn’t want Octavia to feel so alone in her desire for intellect. I didn’t want Noelle to have this feeling of emptiness inside of her fantasy-like world where I, as her brother, the noble prince, would loyally stand by her side. I didn’t want to leave the barn. But I didn’t want to hurt anyone - and based by the way things are going - that’s the only way I’ll be able to be there for Appa.

I look and notice a boy hobbling over to another guy, using his sword as a crutch. He’s clearly worn down and the other one is too. ”You look like you’re having fun.” I let out a light chuckle at that, like losing a leg is any more fun. I figure it’s some jargon between the two because they could only have gotten so damaged from fighting. Maybe they were the killers of the season. I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been paying attention to these two. ”Some might say not enough,” the other boy replies. I don’t know their names, so we’ll assign them the names of Chad and Kyle. They both seemed like they had enough ego to fill the stalls of the stable, so easily enough, I already hated the two. Chad has no leg. Kyle hasn’t lost anything but I’m sure he was just as badly damaged. Didn’t matter to me, they were both equally close to dead from what I saw.

Though the missing leg might be quite the handicap for Chad. Sucks to be Chad. Kyle continued on his blood-raven speech. "Others might say...,” he then looked down at the dead boy at his feet, the dead girl in his arms. ”Too much.” He was a killer. No wonder Kyle was the killer, they had the same first letter. Chad could work too in theory because C and K have similar sounds, so if he wanted to he could be Chad the Ckiller, but he wasn’t. Sucks to be Chad. The two looked like a set of komodo dragons ready to start slapping at each other in any single moment, similar to how they fight for reign over land in the wild. Kyle the Komodo, Chad the Chomodo?

They were in a standby, and therefore, so was I.

[watches chad (arc) and kyle (jasen), admittedly ready to attack]

[pup]

May 14, 2020 0:15:15 GMT -5 pup said:

[arc dorado | post 11 | no attack]

[arc dorado | post 12, attack #11 | 1190]

The boy and the girl at the survivor's feet looked only slight more ragged than the boy himself. Their bodies strewn about in tatters, the girl's leg in his grip. Both our swords glisten in the sunlight with their mixture of blood and metal.

"Some might say not enough," he says. his grin matching mine as he narrows his eyes to see me.

Don't worry, you'll be under my shadow soon enough.

"Other's might say too much." I follow his gaze back down to the boy beneath him. Lifeless, the dead boy's blood mingles with the ashes of those who came before us. The people who were weaker. How many more will be burnt only to have their remains trodden upon by more children vying for victory. Maybe my future descendants will dance on Babe's name, a remembrance to the first taste of blood upon the sword.

"Yeah no kidding," I say with a chuckle, "I won't rain on your parade just yet, but I know who'd say you're having too much fun."

I shield my eyes with my free hand to look up into the stands, locating her piercing gaze. The tribute from district two before me, the one who had won. Once I've located her, I flip her off and call out to her, "Fat load of help you are, Adder!" I gesture to my missing leg where the blood loss was making my world seem like it had just hopped into a washing machine.

We lock eyes for a minute, her stare both patronizing and bored at the same time. High above the fighting, she knew what she was doing. She didn't need to prove her power to anyone else. She had everything she needed for respect. I glower at her for a minute longer before my grin turned into a wide smirk and I break away.

I spit on the ground, once I get out of here, I'll show her who should be the one losing our little staring contest. With a chuckle, I turn back to the boy next to me.

Then I notice the other boy standing nearby, observing us, waiting for just the right moment to pounce.

"Want to have a bit more fun?" I say, my grin widening as I look at the newest arrival. I could feel my blood loss clouding my thoughts, turning my words into a baritone mesh of syllables. But, almost as If renewed by my recent kill, I could sense some feeling coming back into my body.

Facing the newer boy, I can see his face morph into the kid who I had just slain. They were all the same. They were all weak.

"How's your day been, bud?" I say, using my sword as a crutch as I move closer to him, "You don't look that worn down yet, let me help you with that."

I balance myself, and then just as I had with the previous boy, I swing to the background noise of my raucous, roaring crowd, egging me on.

---

[vibes with one leg and attacks september d5m]
mIjTtvs1Qesword
[miss]

[ty to aya for adder's reaction <33]

sword

[sidney]

May 14, 2020 23:32:54 GMT -5 sidney said:

jasen hargrove / 11th post & attack / 1157

M A N or M O N S T E R

He's confident, whoever this boy is. Jasen doesn't know anyone here — not even the younger girl from his district — but a few have become quite memorable. Mostly from the gruesome way he's carved each of them up.

There's a flash in my mind to the first tribute that came up to me, confidence oozing from her every pore, rage so present in her tone. You're dead, she'd said with more intent in her eyes than I'd ever seen before.

And then I cut her head off. 

—

Want to have a bit more fun?

He asks nonchalantly, pulling me from my inner thoughts, looking to me for some sort of acknowledgement. As if we're on the same team now. Maybe for the split second it takes this boy to strike at the third who approaches us... we are. Maybe for the half a second more when he swings and misses we're allies. 

But then Jasen sees all he needs to. 

"All that confidence and you can't even hit him?" He laughs, a cruel little thing that crawls up the back of his throat as he raises his own sword to the boy's back. "Fucking pathetic."

He arcs his blade, and swings. 

"Let me show you how it's done."

( attacks arc, stab stab! )

XEGAMpj|qGsword

[ Deep Gash on Right Thigh -- 8.0 damage ]

sword

[Cait]

May 13, 2020 9:37:44 GMT -5 Cait said:

[d10f - robyne hawn - post 6 - no attack]

[d10f - robyne hawn - post 7 - no attack]

robyne hawn

“I’m not going to hurt you,” a promise he breaks the moment his weapon makes a home in my stomach.

A shuddering gasp climbs up my throat, and I hate it. Even I’ve become desensitised to my cries of pain and disbelief. I’ve shed enough tears on this cursed floor to wash away the ashes of the ones before me who were summoned here to die.

Did we deserve to die like this?

“No,” like he can read my mind, and I shudder at the ice in his voice. It’s not cruel. Simply indifferent. “That's why I kept fighting for so long, why I didn't lay down my weapons even after the so-called treaty, this is wrong but this is where we are and the only way out is to kill and you can't.”

I want to be strong. I want to be brave. It never bothered me when the other children back home would walk all over me, just because they knew they could get away with it. Keep your head down, out of sight and out of mind was safe. They promised.

“We’re safe, Robyne. We’re going to be okay.” That was the promise my mum and dad broke the moment they made it. I understand now, why the boy in front of me couldn’t give up the fight, even when they told us the war was over.

It simply never ends.

“It’s not fair.”

My voice breaks on the last syllable. I want to be strong, and I want to be brave, but maybe those words are simply synonymous with being a killer. I don’t know if I want that, though.

“It’s not in you, not yet.” He’s right, but he shouldn’t get to decide that for me. He speaks for me, and I see red – blood and rage, they’re all the same.

“We never stood a chance. You know that don’t you? That half of us in here have never held a weapon in our lives? But you don’t care.”

I’m so angry – angrier than I can ever remember being – and I know it looks ridiculous on a 5 foot 2 girl cowering in fear at the feet of a predator, but I don’t care. I want to stop talking, because I know it hurts him, but I’m delusional and dying, and it’s all his fault.

“You think you’re a hero for doing this, but you’re not. You’re just a killer, and a monster, and you’ll never change.”

Something flashes in his eyes with my words, and there’s the shift I was waiting for.

He’s a killer, and he strikes once more. All my new-found anger dissipates immediately, and I’m shaking in a puddle of my own tears once more.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” I don’t know if I ever really believed him. Regardless, it still hurts. I knew it would.

It hurts so much, but it’s different.

“Stop!” I cry and I beg and my shriek could split the skies wide open. Already I’m regretting my venomous words; I’m a pendulum swinging back and forth between right and wrong, what’s real and not real, and I don’t even know who I am anymore.

“You’re hurting me!” He knows this, of course. I see it when he flinches away, as if my words are my own weapon and I’ve sliced him open, right down the middle of his cold, black heart. His own words sink into my subconscious – the words of a seasoned killer – but I don’t even have it in me to be scared anymore. Not when death is right by my side, reaching towards my arm, ready to pick up the pieces of my broken body…

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

But when I stop to think about it, it doesn’t hurt anymore, not really. I thought dying would feel worse than this. Some type of out of body experience where you’re floating above this world, in a place between life and death. You can still fight to live, because the battle's not over until you decide it is. I always thought it was our right to survive. How foolish of me.

I’m waiting to be brought to the in-between world from my dreams, but it never comes. I don’t feel like I have a choice.

I just feel numb.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

And dying doesn’t hurt like I imagined it would, but I’m still on fire and I can’t stop the blood seeping out of the gash on my stomach and I panic. Desperate hands fly to the wound he continues to open. I feel the warmth of my own blood coat my fingers, sticky and sickening. I could pass out from the feeling, but the fire in my lungs fuels my screams, louder than ever. They keep me conscious.

It feels like my insides are reaching towards the blade, longing to impale themselves and have this be over, quickly. He pulls back before they make it, and I sigh. In exasperation, desperation, frustration, relief? I can’t keep up. I don’t even try to.

“Please just stop! Leave me alone!”

I want him to tell me its all a bad dream. To crouch down beside me and rip another piece of cloth from his stupid shirt and hold it over my stomach and heal me in a way I never had to learn. I want us to be free, and happy. I want us to go home.

I’m holding on to my last scrap of hope, but I’m nothing more than a foolish little girl.

“Don’t kill me. Please, please, please. Don’t kill me.”

I want to be brave. I want to be strong. But I am none of these things.

I’m a girl who didn’t deserve to die, and I’ll carry that to my grave.

I hope he never forgets the fear in my eyes. When he goes to sleep, I hope it’s all he can see. I hope my tears and my screams haunt him for the rest of his life.

template by Chelsey

[Arrows]

May 14, 2020 21:35:59 GMT -5 Arrows said:

[Remus / No Attack / Post #8]

[Remus / Post #9 <> Attack / 1075]

REMUS

Henry's hand is warm as it presses against Remus' palm. When Remus lifts Henry's weight from the ground, he feels as though he is picking up all the ones who he has seen died. In Henry's eyes, he can see Levi and his Brothers watching with smiles stretching across their faces. He can sense that they are proud of him, that they are here with him. The war might be over, but life isn't. Remus thinks that they are happy he is alive and for the first time since he was shrouded in scars, Remus is too. It's strange what the company of sorrow can do.

Standing opposite of Henry there is a stillness. What if this were another world? What if the war didn't end the way it did? Maybe they would have met each other in the fields. Maybe they would be friends. It's strange, but Remus almost feels like in the few moments they've shared that they have become as close to friends as any tributes can be. There is something more between them than the simple surge for survival. It is a mutual respect that echoes beyond the abyss of this Colosseum and through the hollow city of the Capitol. It reaches out on the breath of the winds to the mass graves and fields of ashes left from the war.

Henry offers out his own hand.

Remus takes hold of it and shakes it firmly.

“I’d be honoured for you to fight me,”

Remus shakes his head.

"The honor is all mine."

What Henry says next strikes Remus' soul. For so many of the kids chosen, this is the worst day of their lives. They smelt the smoke and heard the skies screaming, but they weren't there where the molten metal pounded the pavement. Some stayed in shelters and some stayed at home, but Henry and Remus were there where the bodies broke and the songs of hope were a boisterous chorus. Henry and Remus were there where the world went to decay in an array of flames. They were there with fires of their own to fight. So although this day is terrible, tragic even, the two rebel boys have survived worse.

"I know my partner is giving me one hell of a thumbs up too."

Henry's sword rises and Remus' matches. That's when he hears it rising over the walls of written names. It comes from the catacombs of defeat, but dances on a heart of hope. Those same songs sung in the darkest ditches drive their way into Remus' mind until they finally need to be released. Let them ring, Remus, let them ring. His sword shimmers catching the sun's eye. Those songs are the power of his blade. Henry deserves nothing less.

"If you kill me, take a lock of my hair. I don't want them to burn everything I was to become ashes in their Game. We were never their toys, and we never will be."

Remus' sword swings.

"Let's set each other free from this shit."

Remus attacks Henry Hughes :: Sword
Bxu6N3GEOBsword
{Stabbed in Bicep -- 8.5 damage ; +1 Blades}

sword

[cass]

May 14, 2020 23:30:30 GMT -5 cass said:

henry hughes | post 13 | no attack

henry hughes | post 14 | attack 1021

HENRY -

Black crows circling up above
Crying out, "do you hear that sound?"
I never thought it'd come to this

There’s a half-smile there, as they both ready their swords, pulling them back, preparing themselves to strike. Henry can feel it, in the weight of the metal in his hands, and how he has to give it everything he has to lift it up. The deep wound on his forearm burned with the movement and he finds that it’s becoming more and more noticeable. He’d felt pain worse than this in his lifetime, but this was starting to overwhelm him his body wasn’t what it once had been.

Henry had never been one for trophies or fulfilling dying commands, but then he had never had to fight the soldiers that were supposed to be on his side. So he nodded his head, if he made out of this alive he could do that, he wasn’t sure where he could keep it, maybe wrap it in Remu’s eye patch? Oh hell, he’d think about it if he survived this, although he doubted he’d make it much further then this fight.

He’d killed three of them to get this far, he wondered if anyone else had done that. Four seemed far too ambitious. No, this would be the last one.

It seemed that Remus agreed with that assessment, his blade came down biting into his arm. Henry bit his lip, tearing the sword out of the deep wound. Another one, his arm was being destroyed, and he cradled it up to his chest. What did it matter? There was no use protecting it, and he let it drop back to his side, the pain was savage. It reminded of that time he’d been shot in the leg and the way it had blazed through him and consumed him. He could remember his squad digging the bullet from his flash and cauterizing it with gun powder and flames.

The blood flowed freely, streaming down into the blood that was coming from the wound in his forearm. It dripped past his fingers falling to the floor. Henry took a deep breath, readying himself. It would be a failure to himself and his squad if he didn’t at least fight until his last breath. He knew he would, at least to make sure that when he saw them all in hell he could stand proud.

“You need to hit me harder, I ain’t gonna kark it from a little scratch like that,” he grimaced. “Get me in the heart, Remus, I know you’re missing an eye,” Henry raised his damaged arm, a finger smearing a bloody cross over the place where his heart was.

“Aim here.”

- HUGHES.

[11m Henry attacks 4m Remus -- Sword]
wQ0YThMFCWsword
[1021 - SHALLOW CUT ON RIGHT HIP, +3.5 dmg]

sword

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

May 15, 2020 0:00:51 GMT -5 thompson harvard - d2b - arc said:

[ d5m september yorgos | post #10 | no attack ]

[ d5m september yorgos | post #11 | attack 1113 ]

{ september }

Chad let out a laugh with Kyle’s comment. ”Yeah, no kidding.” I could never understand the banter that seemed to always wedge themselves between men. Especially the ones that don’t seem to think much with their brain. Their bodies did the action. Like Argos - he always just threw things around and hoped that they’d land correctly. "I won't rain on your parade just yet, but I know who'd say you're having too much fun." Chad was acting like he was the Pope. Like he knew everything. God I hated people like that. Mostly because it reminded me of my brother, and I cannot kill my brother, because he is my family and I love him. I just knew that was him. For all I know, Chad and Kyle’s whole situation is just some facade. Or they were that confident and happy and bold about killing. It was weird. It was shit that Argos would like. He’d scoff, his red cheeks filling up with blood at the laughter. Chad then turned his face to the crowd and shielded his eyes from the sun - assumedly finding someone - and doing so quickly. He then gave them the middle finger. "Fat load of help you are, Adder!" What? Did he expect Adder to just jump down and save the day, kill us all with whatever shit they give to the Victors? Chad locked eyes with the victor for a while. It was intense, really. I felt my blood rise at the tension.

The battered male then spat on the ground, looking at Kyle and then at me. Looking at me looking at them. ”Want to have a bit more fun?” He grinned like the Cheshire cat - the wolf feeding on its prey. It was almost like he was growling. I never thought I’d see something like this, but the cannibalistic nature of this place must do that. He looked like a wolf about to take his next meal, and I was that lamb now. ”How’s your day been, bud?” Chad used his sword as a crutch to hobble over to me - as if he was trying to intimidate me - and continued. ”You don’t look that worn down yet, let me help you with that.” I felt the slight bubbling emotion of fear rise in my stomach as he swung right at me.

And missed.

Kyle saw the act from the failed wolf and let out a laugh. ”All that confidence and you can’t even hit him?” It felt like some sort of scene in a movie or a play. The damaged villain tries to make his blow of the century, but somehow messes up. The henchman comes in, disappointed, and glad that he can take his spot as the boss of the whole gig. I watched as Kyle lifted his sword over Chad’s shoulder, his voice let out another demonic laugh. ”Fucking pathetic.” Kyle swung, guaranteeing Chad’s final breath with his words. ”Let me show you how it’s done.”

Chad fell immediately. He was done for. No way in hell he was alive after that. I glanced down at Chad with a bit of a wild look in my eye - fear, hunger, shock - and I looked back at Kyle with that same expression. How dare he. Act so high and mighty at the failure of someone else to then end them off. It was disgusting. I couldn’t imagine having ever laughed at Appa or any of the struggling rebels as they came into the barn seeking refuge and shelter. Not that Chad was seeking refuge - he was seeking blood, which on that front I thank Kyle. But Kyle had given no thought to the weak lamb. Why would you continue piling onto the weak one?

My fear, anger and false sense of security blended into one like one lumpy mixture. ”Impressive, I guess.” Chad was basically limp at this point. ”You seem used to this whole thing. Lucky you.” I gave a nod to Chad and then the other bodies laying around. This Kyle guy was no joke, he was ready to kill and had no issue doing so. I took my sword out of my belt, finally remembering I had the damn thing, and looked at him. ”I assume it should be easy to kill me then, no?” I gave the slight nudge of my eyebrow peaking up to beckon him in. If he was so confident I assume it'd only be a cakewalk for the guy to kill me. ”Let’s see how long I take to get used to it.” The brave were noble, the confident were stupid. Guess I was nobally stupid.

[attacks jasen, sword]
uY1dCxaQyTsword
[result]sword

[gamemaker kelsier]

May 13, 2020 17:57:50 GMT -5 gamemaker kelsier said:

[Babe Adroxis 9M, attack 7, 1047, 1168]

[Babe Adroxis 9M, attack 8, 1162, 1024]

b a b e .

"This is a game, no wrongs, no right
Only a winner and a loser
You and I, oh you and I
We're not that different, you and I."

Babe feels it in his arm when his blade enters her stomach, the resistance less than he expected. It shouldn't be so easy to kill a person, but the sword is sharp and knows how to bite, maybe better than he does.

And he doesn't want to know her name, doesn't want to ask for it. Whether he dies here today or years from now, he's afraid to know this girl. It's so easy to be haunted by people and the last thing he wants is to add her to his long list of ghosts but for as long as he lives he won't be able to forget the way it sounded when his sword went through her.

He pulls it back out in a quick movement and he feels where the steel caches on her insides. She comes apart in pieces, a poorly made doll with a loose string. He tugs the fragile little thread and his blade bites at her skin again. It's too easy for him when it shouldn't be. He knew he'd lost pieces of himself in the past couple of years but he hadn't realized just how many until now.

"It's not fair."

No, it isn't. He isn't supposed to be like this, this boy who hides a terrible choice behind the illusion of mercy. Babe was supposed to grow old with a mother, father and brother. He should be back home in Nine waking up from a really long and shitty dream but that life had ended for him so fast that he'd never really caught up.

The kicker is that the Capitol forces had never even broken through the Adroxis walls that day, his father had butchered his family for no reason. Babe's supposed to forgive him for that, for the terrible choice he thought that he had to make to protect his family but he can't.

He skirts the heart of the matter even in his nightmares, just runs through the dream over and over to get it over and done with as fast as possible. There's never a variant, no other answer, no matter what he tries the dream moves on without him and Cy always ends up with a bullet in his head and Babe with a hole in his chest.

It isn't fair.

She tells him that it's not a fair contest, that he's a monster and he knows that but it still isn't fair. "You think I wanted to be a killer at sixteen?" he says softly, "That I chose this life?"

For the first time in a long while, he actually feels angry. Maybe it's misdirected but now that it's here, he doesn't know how to tame it. There's a reason he's never let it out, that he's always chosen to fight fire with ice but now the flame burns brightly. He thinks about Tara back home, Burma too and even Ximena somewhere on the battlefield behind him. All of them had come to him, expecting him to lead them in the absence of his family when he was just a fucking kid himself.

"You're foolish," he says, "You're so fucking naive."

The words are pointed, crueller than they should be for a dying girl but Babe doesn't care. No matter how he tries to justify it, he knows that she's right about him, that the cycle he's found himself in is endless. When he doesn't come home from this some other kid, maybe even Tara Seraphim herself will take up his mantle and the violence will continue.

He's been holding a gun against their temples for three years, he just didn't want to make the decision that his father had. A merciful man would have saved Babe from this slow acceptance that he has grown up to be the man who has haunted his dreams for so long.

Here, in the ash of the dead and with blood painting the end of his sword, he can feel the hope for a better future that had been so easy to feel back home dwindling. The girl at his feet, begging and pleading for the life that she was slowly bleeding out paints him as the villain, just as the Capitol wants

No better way to show Panem how necessary this little show of power is than having them watch a vicious rebel take down a helpless girl.

Babe looks towards the stands and sees the eyes of too many on him, utterly focused in. They all see it, how close to death she is and Babe is literally the only person that believes he can still be good, that he's doing this because he has to. They all see the rebel from Nine, a savage.

You just want to live, huh.

"Yes," he says softly, eyes falling back on the female tribute. Her pleading is muted, far away from him and he feels that familiar cold feeling wash over him once again.

His father's actions had been selfish.

So are his.

He's a monster.

"Don't kill me," she begs him, "Please don't kill me."

Babe gazes down at her, sword hanging loosely at his side. Her eyes are open wide in fear and she tries to move away from him despite the wound in her stomach. He knows that he'll feel those eyes on him with every single step that he takes away from her body, that he'll shut his eyes at night and still feel that gaze on the back of his neck.

But he's made his choice, he doesn't regret it.

He feels the barrel of the gun on the back of his head and hears the click of the safety being released.

It's never been her that has needed his mercy, not his father, not his gang. It's been Babe all along.

"You're just an excuse."

So he kills her.

[babe attacks robyne with sword]
7oqjIxK8Ohsword
[4.0]

[babe attacks robyne a second time with sword because she's a peaceful trib]*
sword
[Severed Right Hand at Wrist -- 9.0 damage + 1 blades]

*permission was gotten from Cait for the second attack! uwusword·sword

[aya]

[attr="class","w460"]

alexei daine

The stranger offers a theory: "An artist, who was blinded by spite." Alexei shakes her head. No. An artist may have dreamed this place up, may have spent hours and days and weeks drawing blueprints and making models, but the Colosseum wasn't built by them. They did not lay the bricks or set the stone. No one who sits willingly in the stands had been out in the sun building scaffolds or hewing marble. Alexei digs her toes into the sand again, searching for the touch of the timber subfloor. Artists did not fell those trees, mill those planks, level them just so. It wasn't artists who sweat and bled and maybe even died to raise this stadium.

Alexei brings her arm up to shield her face from being split like firewood. It sears, a bright canyon opening on the back of her arm, past the place where it ends at the elbow and echoing all the way down to the tips of her phantom fingers. She grits her teeth, clenches and unclenches her missing fist until the crushing subsides. Not there. Not there.

Feeling outdone by the academic analysis on fonts and serifs and the color of the marble, Alexei offers her own narrow expertise. "The floor is wood under the sand here. It's not like they worked with us on that. They don't deign to work with. They come and they take. It's not a partnership." She thinks for a moment.

Maybe some were like us.

Alexei has a guess or two.

Caught in a fight.

Prisoners of war.

Made to dance.

Maybe forever.

Her voice is small and cracks a little when she admits, "I think my sisters did."

[attacks zephyr - sword]
Js1VflKZ1Bsword
[1086 -- Shallow Cut on Left Forearm -- 3.5 damage]

[newclass=".w460"]width:460px;[/newclass]
sword

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

May 14, 2020 16:36:44 GMT -5 D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] said:

juno del air / post five / no attack

juno del air / post six / 1127

She introduces herself back, and for a moment, I remember what it feels like to be back home. It's like making a new friend and it's like you're about to create these picture perfect memories with them, it's reminding me of the little things that have no place here, the little things that everyone including myself seem to forget about in favour of something much darker, and much, much more grave.

"The name's Daisy. Daisy Holliday." She says, and it's like we can both breathe easier. And I think about how pretty her name is, how soft and sweet it sounds against the brisk death that hangs in the air like a lingering ghost. Maybe it's a sign that she does not belong here more than anyone else, because a girl like Daisy Holliday should be in the fields making flower crowns, counting woodlice underneath rotting planks of wood. There's a story to her name, I can imagine it in my head, but alas, if I want my own—her's is a story I will have to write the ending of.

But I don't want to think about it like that. If I kill her, I don't want her to become part of me. She's Daisy and I'm Juno. There is a distinction between the two, and though I know nothing about her, I know myself, and the likelihood of someone having suffered the exact same past as me is next to nothing. She may not have had to watch her mother and father kill in the name of peace, but she may have had to watch something as equally torturous, something that turns a person cold for a moment before they combat it with an eternal warmth. She may not have Lark, but she may have a sister, a brother, someone as perfect and prized as my own little brother, someone that deserves the world.

I am Juno and she is Daisy and everything else is nothing. Because right now, I stand before her, bloodied and reaching a breaking point, but somehow still standing. And she stands mangled, a girl who looks like she aches even in the places that pain can't be found. Between her blood and in the dusty places of her mind, I look at her and can't help but feel sorry, I can't help it, because she's broken too, because she is a killer too.

"I'm looking for an end," she murmurs, her tone rich with the secrets a stranger bearing a sword dares not to ask about. She follows it with an attempt to knock me down, her body still fighting against all the tides being guided her way. But it does not cooperate, and it's easy to move out of the way of her motion and watch her effort amounts to nothing. I look at her and I know exactly what she wants because I want something similar—I may not want an end, but I want a way out. And though they are similar, just like Juno and Daisy, they are two separate things, because only one means that I get to see Lark again.

"I think I know where the end is, but it isn't happy, Daisy, it isn't happy for anyone." And I wish that it didn't have to be the end because deep down, I want to know everything about Daisy, all the parts that make her Daisy and the all the parts that make her Holliday.

But survival stops for none, and when sparks fly, they glint in my eye and I can see the stars. All the things I ever dreamed are alive in the pools of blood in the ground—but there is no life without death.

"The end won't be happy, but it can still be good."

[ d3f juno del air attacks d11f daisy holliday ]

xQVi_m3dklsword

[ 1127 -- Block -- 0.0 damage ]

sword

[revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay]

May 14, 2020 11:05:16 GMT -5 revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay said:

d3m eros desrosier | post 5 | no attack

eros desrosier | post 6 | no attack

EROS

Eros Desrosier was not made for destruction — at least my mother told me so. I was to be a child of the light, born from the stars with galaxies in my eyes. But she was wrong, I wasn't a child of the light, or destruction, I was a king. And kings aren't any more or less than that, they were just kings. It was there choice to rule with an iron fist or mercy, or both.

And I chose both. Even in this arena, which was soaked in blood, I could choose both. A true king knows the value of mercy, and I was born a true king.

The blood that stained my skin was an echo of that, of mercy. When I tilt my head to the side, I catch her eyes. They were dark — pools of midnight and black like the curls that cascaded down her back. And there was a cruelness to that grin painted across her face, and I know from that grin, that there is only one thing she values.

I inch closer toward her voice, my leather-clad foot stowing in the sweltering sand. I don't twist my head to look at her, I don't swing my crimson-stained sword at her back, but I listen.

eros creeps up on ximena & des