The Bloodbath

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

( 4f reign dalton | attack 1 | 1135 )

She hears a seabird that morning — but it's just the wind, and she knows this, but it hurts less to remember a thing. She does not want to forget the things that built her. A mother, and a father, and a brother; corpses floating in the water, rotting in the dirt, bleeding in her heart.

This is not an easy thing to carry.

It makes her legs shake with every step, unsure and unbalanced — from the lack of use, from the simple fact that she is not a girl built for the earth. She wears a strange outfit, hard but harmless; beautiful but useless. There's blood in the braid down her shoulder. It's from her own mouth.

Reign Dalton knows little of gods — old, or new, or self-invented. She knows something of warriors — broken, or whole, or shattering into pieces. She is not either of these things, even with the sun catching her hair on fire. The sword in her hand is blinding, and terrible, but so is her rage. She has never swam with sharks, so she does not fear them.

But she is alone here with this agony.

So she is afraid of herself.

All it takes is a blade, and the rush of blood, to set her free. And for a moment she is not just a child, ravaged by war and stripped of everything. A girl without her family, without her home, traded from cage to cage — a leviathan in a net, twisting and howling and flooding the world. They took her from her cell, and they dragged her here.

She did not go willingly, and she never would.

Even with her hand pressed to her neck, even with the smell of rust and the rush of fire down her skin. It eats her up, burrows into her veins, makes her stumble because of something more than graceless anger. She does not fall to her knees, but they buckle, and she tilts on her axis. The only thing that centers her is seeing the boy with her blood on his blade.

And he does not deserve it. He will not bury her here.

"You—" and her voice is raw from disuse, shattering in her throat and coming out like dust. Maybe this is a kind of healing. Maybe this is something she has to get out. "You're dead."

This is the only thing she can say.

And it will be true, one day, somewhere
— by her sword, or another.

Reign Dalton is why men fear the sea.

( reign attacks jasen / sword )
xjy0|wrheZsword
( Deep Gash on Right Bicep -- 8.0 damage | +1 blades [9] )

sword

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

[ d5m september yorgos | post #1 | no attack ]

{ september }

I felt like I was stuck inside that train for hours. Time was a myth when death was slowly impending, and the ever standing sun kept that demon pending. The sun was supposed to set at some point; it had to. That’s the way the world works; the sun sets on the day to bring the night and the night brings on the nightmares. I didn’t have many nightmares before last night. Last night was only nightmares, but i wasn’t even asleep. The wandering mind of fear and panic is the mind that builds nightmares, and especially when it’s alone. I was so alone inside that train room. It was me and my fear of dying. Not being able to see Appa again. Or Octavia, or Noelle. Or August. I was fearful of what home would be like when I was not at home. Would it be the same? Who’d take care of the barn? Is Appa going to be there? Is Appa going to be okay? How will Noelle react? My mind crafted these immense ideas that Home would crumble without me there. Nothing would be the same if I wasn’t there just like if Mum wasn’t there for the war. Soon enough the night passed and I found myself sitting inside of a cage.

We were wearing something reminiscent of the robes that gladiators would wear when they used the colosseum for actual entertainment rather than punishment. But here we were, locked like a bird in a cage. Except birds can fly. Birds are free; they can fly in the sky, look down at the earth. We are no bird; we are the prey. The Capitol was the bald eagle, the hawk. They were the bird of prey and we were their next meal. If I were to label myself as a birds prey, I’d say that I’m a fish. Specifically, a fish out of water. I do not belong here. I do not belong in this cage, in this stupid fucking toga and in this game. I do not belong in this fight.

And admittedly, I won’t win this fight.

-

”Sven, think youd kill?”

August was never the cleanest speaker, but I understood what he meant. Last year was the last year he’d be enrolled in the murderer’s lottery and we were spending some time washing down the stalls. This was around the time that the reaping was coming up and I could tell under his big, dumbass, brute act of confidence he was scared. August was always bigger than his bite. It was rather annoying at times when I was a child; he’d always be able to intimidate us into doing his work. But not that I’m big- well, bigger, I don’t let him boss me around like that. He backs down in an instant. Maybe because he’s scared. Maybe because he’s not a fighter.

As for me, I wasn’t sure at the time. I never really gave thought at the idea of being a killer, especially at 16. I thought I wasn’t as vulnerable as the 17s or 18s. It just felt… weird to me. I guess I’d be a killer? Not the one charging into every cage to battle with blood and grit and sweat. Just as it’s needed. I was the venus fly trap of killers. I wouldn’t kill to be famous or known or feared. I’d kill at the opportunity given to me.

”Yanno, Argos?” I turned my head to look at him as I finished scrubbing down one of the walls. ”I think it depends.” Dropping the rag into the bucket we had of soapy water, I rested my arm against the corner and leaned against the stall. ”I think I’d fight if I was like some sheep in a burnin’ barn. I wouldn’ fight if I was a fish in water.” I typically had to let my voice slip a bit to the country hills slurred words when I talked to August. Whenever I spoke in fuller sentences he stared at me like a cow at its owner. They didn’t know what the fuck you were doing, juts feed them already. ”Would ya?”

”Huh? Uh-- oh! Uh,

Of course he didn’t know how to formulate a basic response to it.

”Yeh.”

Dear christ... no wonder I was the runner of us two when we ran the shelter. He had the social comprehension of a pig. The mind capacity of a goddamn newborn pony trying to stand on its legs. He was so useless when it came to trying to have an actual, clear, functioning conversation. But I still loved him. I had to- it was human nature to love your brother. No matter how goddamn stupid he was. It was clear he was lying, but he didn’t want to seem like a loser. He was always like that, really. Trying to entertain the people during their stay with his stories of how he used to rangle all of the horses by himself. Argos wanted to look like the fucking heard leader in a crowd of cows, but even the visitors knew better. Maybe it was my fault, though. My annoyed glare from the corner shaking off every claim of glory he had to this barn. Though, I never let him say anything. Let the dumb man speak his fake glory so the smart man can learn from it.

So, that’s what I did. Sit back and watch glory feed itself.

-

The buzzer rang and the gates creaked open as if a dragon was being released from the depths of hell, and maybe it was. The dragon of the Capitol’s revenge, sending their knighted men and women to fight the dragon of punishment. Little did we know that even if we did survive this colosseum that we did not escape the dragon’s breath.

The chemistry among the colosseum as the gates opened up were dynamic. Some stood by each other, talking. Some grabbed their swords and stood enguarde. Others grabbed their sword and started fighting immediately. Me, on the other hand; I wasn’t sure what my first move was. Well, second. First step was to grab a sword for myself because I wouldn’t dare walk into any single open area of space without a weapon. A few cages down there was a girl who was sitting in hers. I saw no purpose for fighting yet, and as the dog to the warm fireplace, I pursued her. ”Mind me taking a seat here?” I placed my sword into the belt we had to store. ”I’m not exactly feeling the fight either.” A weak nod, because there was no reason to have a happy smile. ”I’m September, District 5. Who are you?”

[september enters and joins robyne as she sits in her cage]

[ali]

Desdemona Shaw // Attack #1 // 1052

Desdemona Shaw

That I'd fallen for a lie
You were never on my side
Fool me once, fool me twice
Are you death or paradise?

“Strip.”

Desdemona cannot help but gawp at the Peacekeeper- a woman, she determines, by her almost melodic voice- who stands at the edge of the small holding room. Beneath her helmet, Desdemona tries to imagine the woman’s lips tilting into a smirk, the presence of it present in the tone of her instruction. The young woman continues to stare at the soldier, her fingers fiddling, with the buttons of her cotton white dress, debating as she brushes her thumbs over the fabric of the buttons whether to follow the orders of the woman dressed in white before her. Her decision is quickly made, as the soldier moves ever so slightly. Desdemona jumps, a small sound erupting from her lips as she begins to fumble with the buttons of her dress with a sense of urgency as her heart thuds hard against her ribcage.

With the buttons undone to the bottom of her breast bone, Desdemona’s eyes move from her task to the Peacekeeper watching her, a steady discomfort slowly washing over her. She grimaces and is for a moment reminded of her mother, how she used to make sure that she would dress exactly the way she wanted, sometimes growing impatient with her and tearing the clothes from her back in a frenzied anger, not caring if her nails would catch or pinch at her skin. Desdemona finds herself turning away, hunching her back so that maybe the peacekeeper wouldn’t see her bare skin. The only man who ever should see you, is your husband now, you hear your Mother In Laws voice scolding you after she catches you washing yourself with the door unlocked.

Suddenly, without warning, a shower of ice cold water hits her still clothes back, drenching her dress in seconds. Desdemona gasps for air, the water seeping into her skin as the Peacekeeper laughs quietly under her breath. By the time the Peacekeeper turns the hose off, her cap and hair are damp with the cold water and the young woman can feel the cold sinking into her bones as she is left, cowering by the wall, shivering. “Hurry up.” She hears the peacekeeper behind her, impatience now apparent in her tone. With gritted teeth, she peels the dress and her underclothes off her wet skin, tearing her widows cap from her head so sharply that it tugs at the plaits she kept her dirty blonde hair tied up in. She keeps her back turned as she steps from the soaked pile of clothes at her feet, feeling her cheeks flushing as she subconsciously moves to cover herself with her arms.

She can taste the fresh water of the hose and her hot tears on her lips as the Peacekeeper tosses a pile of clothes to her side.

“Get dressed.”

Without hesitation, Desdemona quickly pulled the cotton tunic over her body, her fingers struggling with the leather ties as she shivers from the icy water that peppers her skin. Before she can even finish lacing her sandels, the peacekeepers had grabs her arm, the leather skin of their glove burning her skin. Instinctively, she tries to fight it, tries to pull back, images of her fathers hand around her arm flash across her mind but as she stumbles forward, pulled through the door to her cell and into a long empty corridor, Desdemona reminds herself she is free of them. That they can’t hurt her anymore. Then why am I still hurting she thinks to herself, her eyes bloodshot with tears as the Peacekeeper marches her down the long empty corridor to a empty cage.

There are no instructions as the Peacekeeper throws her into the metal prison, slamming the door shut behind her. Her fingers catch the bars of the cage, her knees scraping against the metal floor. She gasps, letting out a small cry, but even in the silence it is barely audible, her chest heaving with each beat of her heart. Desdemona looks over her shoulder to see if the Peacekeeper is still watching her, enjoying her in pain as her parents once did, but they are gone. The hallway behind her is empty and before she has time to question, to call out into the darkness, the cell begins to quake around her. Her fingers grab at the cages edges, and she scrunches her eyes tightly shut- if she listens hard enough, she can hear the bombs taking out the street over- steadying herself as it shakes, rising….

Rising….

Until it comes to a slow stop, clicking into place. When she opens her eyes, she is greeted by a light at the end of a short, sandstone tunnel. For a moment, there is only the sound of her heartbeat before she hears it- the fanfare, a rumbling noise, like thunder far off on the horizon, and a high pitched whine as the door to her cell slides open. Desdemona stares at the opening for a long moment before she finds herself rising to her feet- there is nowhere else to go, she thinks to herself as she steps forward, apprehensively through the archway at the end of the tunnel.

The brightness of the sun is scalding. Holding her arm above her head to sheild her from the brightness, Desdemona takes three, robotic like steps out from beneath the shadow of the archway.

A tremendous, deafening roar fills the air as Desdemona blinks away the sunlight, her ocean blue gaze finally focusing on the scene around her. The crowd of color, sits like a sunset at its peak, surrounding the central arena from every angle, excited faces and hungry eyes watch her with almost tantalising anticipation.

And as her gaze flickers from the crowd to the stage, a wash with billowing clouds of sand and blood. Desdemona can feel her heart, thudding at the base of her throat as the air tingles with the first signs of shedded blood. The young woman, in desperation, turns her gaze to the sword in front of her, thankful for the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears to drown out the sound of the screams- the screams of the crowd and the screams of the children as chaos erupts around her in a clamour for weapons and life.

She reaches, so sure of herself, to wrap her hands around the hilt of the sword- it is warm against the palm of her hands, kissed by the sun - and draws it out of the dirt. The silver blade shines, ringing slightly as it moves, and as she rises it, Desdemona suddenly finds herself frozen. Her eyes, fixed on the round face and blue eyes that's stare back at her from the reflection of the sword, distorted and contorted like a fun house mirror, her knuckles bleached white as she grasps the sword in her hands, a small voice inside her begs, willing her to use it.

I can't.

"You don't have to fight back. Not if you don't want too," A voice beside her brings her out of the trance, the headlights she found herself in suddenly blink out and there she is, grounded and in the world again. Turning, the teenager sees that it is a girl- young, she thinks to herself as she observes the outfit which is just a bit too big for the girls petite frame from years of malnutrition- who is talking to her. Desdemona’s chest heaves, expelling the held breath she didn’t even realise she was holding as tears begin to stream down her cheeks again. “I….” is all she musters before the girl is continuing- speaking to her as if they were not about to be thrown into a bloodbath where their only goal was the murder one another.

“But you do have to be present... Hiding away in your shell of fear wont save you now. Only you can save yourself. And how you do is up to you. But don"t give into the fear."

She stares at the girl for a moment. Desdemona knows what she is talking about- that shell. That shell she had grown so comfortable with over the years because she feared what lay beyond it- feared that if she did not give into its comfort what her family might do to her. Desdemona’s scrunches her eyes closed tightly as she inhales, seeing her parents faces in her mind, their faces as she was pulled from the crowd of children after her name had been called. She sees that look on their faces- it is not sorrow. It is disappointment. They know she won’t come home.

Something inside Desdemona flickers, the same thing that ignited on the day of the Reaping. When they called her name and tore her from her life.

It is anger that drives her forward, raising the sword above her head. 

Desdemona Shaw [D2F] attacks Petra Vanburen, D1F [Dars] with Sword
27zR4zpt7Vsword
[1052 -- Shallow Cut on Forehead -- 4.5 damage]


lyrics: no time to die by billie eilish

sword

[kap]

May 9, 2020 11:30:10 GMT -5 kap said:

[D8M Alistair Ranger | Intro/Post 1 | No Attack]

[D8M Alistair Ranger | Post 2 | No Attack]

[googlefont="Marck Script"]Alistair Ranger

"Wake me up,
Won't you wake me up,
I'm caught in a bad dream,
Caught in a bad dream"

~

Blood was starting to spill, but not my own quite yet. I was lucky in that sense, but I wasn't sure how long it would last. I still kept myself distanced from the sword that was meant to be mine. I wasn't sure I could even get myself to touch it, much less actually use it against another human being. The thought of maiming or killing another individual sent chills down my spine, and not the good kind.

I felt sick to my stomach as I saw a boy slash his sword into someone's hip, and another person stab someone else in the chest. I couldn't watch. I just couldn't. I closed my eyes tight, which I knew would just make me an easier target, but I couldn't help it. If I looked, I might be sick. At this point, I had to try harder than ever to stop the tears. Somehow, I still managed to hold them back.

If I cried, that'd just make things worse for me. No one here was just going to tell me to suck it up. Instead, they'd try to kill me. I just had a feeling that was the way that things would go. I knew I wasn't going to make it out of here alive, but that didn't mean I wanted to feel the pain of it all. Then again, if I were killed quicker, I wouldn't have to deal with this for as long. Wouldn't that just be the better option?

I hear someone's blade slicing into another tribute, the squelching sound of bloody flesh making my stomach do a flip. Then, it happens. I vomit all over the ground in front of me, and I feel terrible about it, too. I had just chucked my stomach contents into the ashy remains of dead tributes.

What kind of terrible person was I? My eyes fly open when I realize what I've done, and I stumble backwards a step or two.

"No… No…" I mutter guiltily.

What in Ripred's name was I honestly supposed to do right then?

Fight, that's what.

Except, I refused to fight, at least right now. If someone drew their blade on me, I don't know what I'd do, at that moment, but I suppose I'll know when the time comes.

~

lyrics: "Bad Dream" by Ruelle

[Alistair does not attack]

[Cait]

[d10f - robyne hawn - intro - no attack]

robyne hawn

I cried the entire train ride.

At first the tears were uncontrollable, ugly splashes on my navy blouse accompanied by pitiful weeping. The sadness seeped into every bone, drowning me from the inside out.

I never learnt to swim --

-- so I rode out the tidal waves rolling through me as best I could, but it’s hard to stay afloat when you’re forever gasping for air. There’s no rhythm to the rise and fall of your chest when you’re dying – and it felt like death. A body wracked by sobs running on muscle memory, but they sound different.

Broken.

In and out and in and out and inandoutandinandout and i n a n d outand in and o u t a n d in and out.

In.

Out.

Steady.

There was a boy in the carriage next to me. I hadn’t seen him board the train, but I’d seen him when they called his name. He didn’t talk to me, let alone look over at me, and it was that stoic nature that unnerved me the most.

Would he kill me?

The fear came in to replace the sadness, and by some miracle my tears dried up. They took with them my hopes: for a life, above all, but in that moment, for a friend.

As the seconds ticked by, my heart rate slowed, and I sat. Waiting. Hoping for a sign that we were in this together. A knock on my door, perhaps, despite it being an impossibility. I wanted to call out to him, but I couldn’t speak, for I had no voice left. I’d screamed all the way from the District Square.

And he didn’t care.

As the minutes ticked by and the world outside the window sped past, I accepted my first harsh truth:

I’m just a fool.

More tears threatened existence, then; I said no. I had to stop them falling; we weren’t home anymore. Tears were for late nights curled up on the couch in the living room, watching nature documentaries where the weakest animals die. Tears were for falling in the playground and breaking your arm, but not until you’d put on a brave face – “it didn’t hurt, promise” – and run to the bathroom to wallow in your lies.

Tears were not for right now. I wouldn’t break again, but it hurt so bad to keep it together.

Be brave. And so I tried.

I tried counting the number of tiles on the floor of the carriage, but I lost track too many times to make it past twenty-four.

I tried staring a hole into the wall of my compartment, considered the likelihood of surviving a fall from such great heights when we’re travelling like lasers in the night. Impossible, I decided.

In the end, I resorted to the oldest trick in my book of survival: keep your head down. The only thing I knew how to do.

Look where that got us.

You hid when they called your name, let the other children cover you with their own bodies and limbs. That’s what you were told to do.

If you were a nobody, you were safe.

If you never started a fight, you could never be hurt.

If you hid well enough, they could never find you.

It came in waves, like everything does. Tears, and pain, and memories.

“Jasen Hargrove.”

“Robyne Hawn.”

And the tears came faster, again.

.
.
.

The train comes to a shuddering halt, and you’re awake within seconds. You don’t remember falling asleep, but you’re grateful for the reprieve from crying.

You’re exhausted.

You don’t want to move, but they swarm the carriage and drag you to your feet, forcing you out the door,

down a corridor,

past more Peacekeepers,

through another door,

and into a grey room of isolation.

They say you have two minutes to change into the uniform hanging on the door, before granting you a small piece of privacy. You find your lungs in a corner of the room and scream until 120 seconds have passed.

To the Peacekeepers’ credit, they let you have it, before they’re returning and forcing you into clothes that are too big for your slight frame. You begrudgingly let them manipulate your limbs to their will – you don’t have it in you to fight.

Through another door,

and another door,

down, down, down, the world is falling down.

When you’re alone once more, the lights go out, and you’re plunged into darkness. Slowly, you turn around, once, twice, and stop.

There’s no way out. You shouldn’t be surprised, but you swear your heart skips twenty beats in that moment.

All that stands between life and death is a single, heavy gate,

a barren stretch of sand,

and a gleaming blade.

You’re crying even before the iron gate rises.

And when it does --

-- your vision turns red.

You try to step forward --

-- but your feet won’t move.

All you can do is turn around --

-- and hide.

Please don’t find me please don’t find me please don’t –

Footsteps, behind you, immediately.

No no no NONONONOno no no please no –

“Mind me taking a seat here?”

It’s a trap, don’t fall for it you stupid girl, don’t turn around, keep your head –

Slowly, you turn to face the stranger.

The first thing you notice is his height. He towers above you, and you swallow the dread rising in your throat. One good hit and you’re dead.

The second thing you notice is the sword in his hands, and you’re crying as hard as ever.

It’s over.

“St – stay away, please.” You’re begging, something you never thought you’d find yourself doing, but you’re on hands and knees staring into the face of a stranger – “September, District 5” – and you don’t want to die.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

Your first harsh truth:

you’re just a fool.

template by Chelsey

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

[ 9f ximena wright  | intro ]

The truth is this: the self has never been fixed.

There is nothing organic about who a person is, who a person will become. The self is a series of choices, a performance of the highest order that you were never fully able to wrap your head around until the minute that you decided to stop trying to wrap your mind around it. It's an effect, a consequence, not a hurricane created by a butterfly's wings a million miles away.

Who you are is the thing you have chosen to become, the bits and pieces of yourself that you tell others when they ask after you. The communication of who you are is a curated collection of self-delusions, and you are under no delusion that it is anything different.

You're a gutter rat.

That's the life that you chose for yourself, and you don't bow under the weight of that, would never try and twist or tug the needle tied to the fabric of your fate into another direction. Your life is that of a rat, of life and death, and following where you need to go in order to survive. You're a creature mindful of watching eyes, with a dark heart and sharpened teeth, and when the bars to your cage rise and expose you to the sun just beyond, you don't step forward into the light right away.

You're more comfortable in the dark.

You watch with careful eyes as your fellow tributes step out of their cages and pick up the swords there, creatures thronging together. You're just as used to the sounds of battle and humans in pain as you are used to the sounds of howling laughter, gullets open wide to let the world in. You watch as the sun beats down on all of their faces, take in the sight of them in the ridiculous fucking grab that the Peacekeepers had clearly forced all of you into.

The truth is this: you're not a creature born to survive in brilliant, bright places.

The truth is this: you can't stay in the dark.

The heaviness of impending danger, it makes you want to curl right back into your shadows, reach a single hand out into the light to pick up your sword before pulling it back and hiding until you have a chance to cut someones throat. During the rebellion, that's what you were best at, being the soldier that crept into a camp and took out a few of the enemy's men before the rest of your comrades could come in and start the real fight.

You wish that someone could promise you the oblivion of a black hole.

You don't know what to do. You have your orders, spent the better part of the night making jokes with yourself and the walls of your cage. You're not afraid to cut twnety-three throats if it means being the last soldier standing, but this is the first real time your past has conflicted with the things that you'll have to do to survive and you're not sure how to process that except to stand on the very edge of a the cage's shadow and pick up what is supposed to be your sword and twirl it around lightly. You're not much one for fighting with hulking things like this, but you find its balance the same way you'd find it in one of your knives and—it gives you strength.

You take a shuttering breath and step into the light just in time to see a girl one cage over drop her own weapon. The truth is this: the self has always been fixed, and you wonder what hers is.

Your eyes cast around at the blood already being spilled and you know that you could dive into the forray, maybe help take down that girl who's throat already got cut and has blood seeping down her clothes, but the maze whispers in the back of your head. Are you lost? it asks and you take a step towards the other girl instead.

"May we all find peace," she says, and you literally cannot help it when you scoff.

"Seems unlikely, don't you think?" you say, voice unkind. You've always sort of been like that, matter of fact to the point of terror. You're close enough to bend down and pick up her sword, and something twisty in the back of your head makes a joke about killing her with her own weapon but you just flick it up a second and grab hold of it by the sharp end, the hilt extended. "You dropped this."

[ xime enters, no attack, talks to Iphigenia ]

[D'Arcy Mason d6b [Tyler]]

[D11F Daisy Holliday | Intro/Post #1 | No Attack]

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

Daisy Holliday

1. Pushing Daisies

Well shoot, I'm actually in the Hunger Games!

I thought someone was yanking my chain when they called out my name. I never knew any of the people picked in the Hunger Games before so I figured they just picked Rebels and their kids or something. And I ain't a rebel, I knew that for sure. But still I moseyed on over to the front of the crowd for everyone to gawk at me. There were a lot of people but I saw a few faces I knew. Hazel Sloane was staring at me like she just won the lottery, crooked nose and all. I wish they let me beat her up again, that would've been nice. I couldn't find any of my family in the crowd which made me sad. I would've loved to say goodbye to them all before going to the Capitol but the peacekeepers wouldn't let me. So I guess I gotta win these Games and go home to see them again.

I never cried a tear though, no ma'am! Pa always told me there was no sense getting worked up over something you can't change. Pa's always right with those kinds of things. I miss my family heaps though. I hope they'll be happy to see me when I'm up on the big screen beating people up.

I remember hearing once that the Capitol was a fancy place. I didn't care much for cities but I was excited to see it. I didn't get to see much of anything though. I spent most of my time in a room with a couple peacekeepers making sure I didn't sneak off to find the other players. Ain't that boring? Left me lots of time to think up strategy I guess, but I ain't much for thinking too hard. It all seemed pretty straight forward to me; beat people up and hope they die, and don't get beat up so bad that I do die. Easy peasy lemon-squeezy.

---

Finally today came. The peacekeepers brought me to some other room and made me put on this flimsy armour getup. Heck, I'm pretty sure my normal clothes would be better armour than this stuff! But the peacekeepers weren't to keen on me protesting wearing the thing, so I put it on. Better to not to get all bruised up before the Games even begin, I figure.

After a brief wait, the gate on one side of the room opens up and I see the arena. I swear the first thing that goes through my mind is "Damn, that's cool!" I'm used to the creaky wooden barns back home, but I was looking out at giant stone walls that towered above us all, locking us into a circle. The ground is covered in some kind of weird dirt, all black and dusty. In front of me I see they've left me a sword.

Badass, right?

Before I could grab for the sword though I notice other people also moving around from the other gated rooms and figure, heck, maybe I should see who I'm gonna be fighting. A lot of them look old, some even look older than me. Damn, some of these kids have been through it. A bunch of kids were standing around near their cells. Some look scared, bless their hearts, but others look like they're thinking. I ain't much for thinking too long about things.

I notice a couple youngsters in the group and, not gonna lie, it hurt my heart. Maybe it was just because I was missing my family heaps, but they reminded me of Rosie, of Caleb. I could hear Pa telling me again: "no sense getting worked up over something you can't change." I can't change that these kids gotta die if I want to go home.

But I don't think I can take them out. Not yet.

A few kids have already started fighting. Now, they were more my speed. Sometimes you can't think too much, you just gotta do.

And lucky for me, I'm a doer.

Daisy picks up a sword, does not attack.

[sidney]

May 9, 2020 11:58:09 GMT -5 sidney said:

jasen hargrove / second attack / 1154

JASEN

It feels like glory.

The swing of his blade and the gout of blood that springs forth from the girl's throat. He feels like the wolf from the bed time story his mother used to tell him when he was a child. Big and bad and evil. He huffs; Jasen snorts. He puffs; Jasen grunts. But the girl before him is not some little red riding hood. Her retort is weak, voice cracked and shattering upon impact. Briefly, he wonders if she's as frail as she sounds. Would her bones crumble just as easily? 

You. You're dead.

And then she swings, his question answered in the form of a slice to his right arm. Fuck, that hurts. He can feel the blood starting to run down his arm, droplets falling onto the sand and creating tiny little craters as they reach the ground. But he doesn't falter, doesn't move from where he's posted himself. Shoulders square, just like Charlotte taught him. Head held high, just like his father always expected. 

"Not yet, sweetheart," he croons back, taking half a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow and push a single lock of hair from his eyes. "Come on," he urges, adrenaline generating from the open wound she'd just given him; it spreads quickly, sending what feels like a jolt to every one of his limbs. "Fight for it," he says with a wide grin. "Or you're the one who's dead."

The wolf runs his tongue along his teeth, hungry for another taste, and goes in for one more strike.

( attacks reign )

_y7y31x1ygsword

[ Severed Head -- 40 damage ]

sword

[aya]

[attr="class","w460"]

alexei daine

She doesn't bother with the wrist guards. If they were real armor, maybe she'd strap them to her ankles or her feet, but they're as useless as flimsy leather sandals and the buckles on her tunic. Alexei catches a glimpse of her reflection in the blade of her sword and sighs. Costumed head-to-toe, she grimaces. A pretend soldier in an imaginary war, it's like she got the children's birthday party version of her wish. You always imagined you'd be a hero? Here, kid, have a cape.

She takes another step forward, tentatively toward the start of the fray. Summoning the courage she's always sworn she had with each deep breath, she takes a practice cut in the air, and then another. It isn't hard. In fact, for someone who's held a saw for as long as she's held a pencil, it's even easier than it looks. And really, could bone really be that different from timber?

She takes another step forward, convinced she she can do this — a lie, obvious in the way she refuses to put a name to what, exactly, this is — and maybe she would've, if not for the bit of sand that gets between her sole and her worthless sandal, and she kicks a nail not-quite-flush in the wooden subfloor, and she trips, and she faceplants, and she comes face to face with three realities:

- There's ash mixed in with all the silt — and it's not wood ash.

- Someone built this arena. Panem's labor force does not wear the vivid purples and turquoises that dot the stands.

- Sand in the eyes really fucking stings.

Painstakingly, she props herself up and dust herself off, exhaling a low stream of mumbled curses. Alexei sits again, ripping the stupid sandals off of her feet without bothering to unstrap them, then goes back for her sword.

She looks around, wondering where she ought to jump in, what she ought to do — but the thought that keeps tapping on the inside of her skull is: Who built this? It's a bad time to be distracted, but she can't help but wonder. Was it her sisters?

[alexei does not attack yet]

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

[pup]

May 9, 2020 11:48:01 GMT -5 pup said:

[arc dorado d2m | intro attack #1 | 1094]

[arc dorado d2m | attack #2 | 1091]

My sword grazes his hip, a taste of what's to come. Finally, people were fighting each other. It took them long enough. All it really took was one person to attack, and then their fragile egos came crashing down to reveal the human beneath their glass surfaces.

Our fans in the stands' voices mixed with swords clashing to create a screeching cacophony that filled the air.

Humanity really is perfect in it's own special way, isn't it.

Blood drips from the boy onto the ground as he speaks to me for the first time.

"You can't call me that. No one else is allowed to call me that but Cy."

Cy. He thinks I'm going to know who that is? But I guess I struck a nerve. His icy voice, at least to my ears, contains the subtle rhythm of someone containing their anger. I chuckle, my face a wide grin as the boy swings his sword at me in a wide arc. "You're really ready to die, huh Pal."

I let out a chuckle as I deftly dodge his strike. This fight won't last long, I'm sure of it. Then I can move onto the next one and maybe see if I can get one of the tributes just sitting around to finally pick up their weapon and show their true colors. I wonder how long it will take to actually see someone break completely. Probably not long. This boy's sensitivity really represents all of theirs.

My face is a wide grin as I tease him, "Woah there, didn't realize I struck a nerve. This Cy guy really did a number on you. I hope he's watching from home, babe."

Out of the corner of my eye I see a girl's head go flying from her body. Oh shit. I didn't get that first kill and I'm going to regret that for the rest of my life now, won't I.

The audience erupts with the sound of cheering, booing, and everything in between. The noise deafens the stadium for a moment, but it only widens my smile as my eyes light up with the prospect of being the next person they're cheering. I shift my blade in my hand, readying it for my next attack as I size him up.

---

I remember that night like it was yesterday. The day that we realized he was never coming back. I was eight. I was weak back then. I had thought he would come home. That there was an ounce of remorse in this world. That somebody, somewhere out there was looking out for us. Maybe even something deep inside humans that called out for them to do what's right.

Then I realized there was something inside of us, calling for us to do what's right. But what's right is to make sure that you survive. That you win. That you are in a position where you never have to live off of scraps and are at the mercy of the world. I'll never be at the mercy of those around me ever again.

---

I nod my head in the direction that the cheers were directed as I bounce out of my thoughts, at the boy who had just killed a girl. I knew neither of their names. They were just faces in the crowd that blended together to one menacing beast that threatened to take everything away from it. That same beast would soon be cowering to me.

"He really didn't even try to go for the whole 'it costs an arm and a leg' thing first," I say with another laugh at my own humor, "But don't worry, I'm a bit nicer than that. So which do you want first? Arm," I swing, "or leg?"

[/div]
[attacks Babe 9m with sword ]
TPVFQcZQPXsword
[1091 -- Shallow Cut on Left Thigh -- 3.5 damage
(Sword)]

sword

[Deleted]

May 9, 2020 11:46:19 GMT -5 @fabulousraven said:

[ homeboy like, enters / no attack / 1st post lol hi ]

beauden D12m / unarmed/ 2nd post

b e a u d e n .

"you are weak
but not foolish
you have learned
how to die."

The bars lift, and this is where the lions come in, yes? There’s a second of peace, I hear the whistle of the storm. Should I recollect my life story now? In this second, brief my last will and declare my soul for safe keeping, everyone dies - living here does not mean living forever.

“Don’t take it personally, just doing what I gotta do.”

”What the fuck, dude?”

What the ”holy shit,” there is a blood that spits from her chest, my eyes trail it as if I’ll catch it before the sand can digest it. My immediate response is to swing back, she is not family, she is not a friend, but she is home. I should care for her, right? This is no place for friendships, but if I were to die, I should want it to be her,

I think.

I feel like I am supposed to care, and it makes it that bit easier to leave. To rationalize it, I pretend she is something cornered, dangerous and defensive and she can protect herself as she scratches her sword along his cheek. There’s a stretch of blood already in the sand, and I know it works beneath us, a river of blood that’s yet to dry.

Good luck, Sutton, and if she doesn’t kill him, maybe I will have to. The rules of the game, Beauden Mortuus is etched in letters I cannot read quite yet, and I take my steps across the colosseum ground, away from Sutton. She’s already running on adrenaline, to take that gash and still stand, and I make two mistakes staying in that corner.

To watch her die
To face that boy myself,

Both are problems that would not have existed two weeks ago, and neither are problems that will exist in an hour. There’s a ticking of time and I haven’t settled on the fact that I will die yet, I’m still convinced I won’t. There’s a reality separate from my own, and I find it on the other side of the colosseum, wrapped in a serene withholding I would never experience.

There is a boy in a corner, much like Sutton, and there is a boy with a sword, much like myself. There is enough context to know already what will happen to the Sutton’s in this game.

The scared will kill those in fear, ”hey, you’re supposed to be killing me.”

He waits at his cage, and he sees a head severed from its body the same time I do, there’s no mistaking it. Somebody’s dead, a blonde girl and I believe it was Sutton.

I believe I am alone, scared in my eyes and nowhere else.

I won’t die scared, if fucking anything. I’ll respect myself for that just much.

[ punchy punchy Reed, D7m ]
BLml574PRNunarmed

My fists ball into his tunic, hesitant in my approach and he struggles just as well. I want to latch on, to carry some control over this boy, but I’m just not able to. Shaky in my grip, ”don’t just fuckin’ sit there and wait to die,” and it is just enough to throw him into the arena. 

And it is easier to antagonize this boy to myself, he’s scared. He’s not already fighting. 

He deserves to die. 

I sound crazy, but there has to be blame somewhere, a reason, something more primordial than fighting for fear, why him? I bite my lower lip, my back to his cage and my face towards him in the arena, 

because he is scared. 

unarmed

[shrimp]

May 9, 2020 12:15:41 GMT -5 shrimp said:

[[zephyr] kestell | post #1 | —]

[zephyr] kestell | post #2 | —

[attr="class","w460"]

Your sword alights in the rising sun, and you do not back away from its glare.

—Yet, you do not heed its call.

There will be a time for you to level this blade (and time, ever reliable, swims towards you with the currents, quickly approaching) but first you must slow down. This forecast will arrive. You must meet it with a summoned strength, an inner flame, a rhythm that welcomes the will of the heavens—

Then you wrinkle your nose and look down at a puddle of vomit that slowly lurches forward. Something innate causes you to step back (alarm, that someone has been where you were about to step; disgust, because you're only wearing sandals; surprise, because you hadn't stopped to consider your footsteps would be stained by anything but blood) and then look up. The other tribute is wide-eyed and frozen. And the two of you are, for this moment, and the next, statues. The world could have shifted its axis and you would still be here, in this second, wondering what next step to take.

It would be quick, you think.

It should be quick, you know.

So your step turns into a charge, into a shove, and you pin them against the wall, your elbow pressed against the armor to keep them in place—just as you saw once, in an awful Capitol film on war and heroes and the devils who fought just to survive. The sun casts your shadow over their face, and you know you need to look, know you must look at them—because it will keep you safe, keep you humble, keep a semblance of respect that the Capitol did not give your brethren.

But you can't. Your blade slams forward and scratches against a stone that reads Altyr, its metal edge grazing flimsy, useless, leather armor. Leaning forward, you try not to be bothered by the remnants of last night's dinner that you can smell from their breath.

"For your own sake—get it together,"

It is a harsh sound: quiet, from the back of your throat, but it is not as acrid as you wanted. There is a warble, a tremble. You know why. Will alone won't keep your terror from spiraling out; so these words are for them, but they are also for you. "Do you want to be the kid who died in your own puke?"

You move to leave. Someone loses their head. Wide-eyed, but stalwart, shaky, stubborn, you turn back.

"And when you've got a moment, wipe your mouth."

[zephyr] does not attack
[zephyr] pretends to stab, and then chastises, alistair

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

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

May 9, 2020 11:44:47 GMT -5 umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] said:

Petra Vanburen, 1F | Post One | No Attack

Petra Vanburen, 1F | Post Two | 1121

Petra saw the girl coming from a mile away, though to be fair, she didn't look like she was trying to be particularly stealthy. She was a bullet from a gun, sights locked on Petra, and all Petra could think was: She has a young face.

Innocent.

Those were the ones to watch.

Her halfhearted attack was enough to graze the skin of Petra's head, stinging aftermath the only proof that it had happened. She remembered a boy she'd met once, back at the mansion. She'd been interested in him because his name was strange and otherworldly, more a collection of sounds than a name: Bordellion Carpordaver. He'd been young and Capitol raised and, admittedly, rather handsome and, unfortunately, boarding at the Vanburen Estate.

She'd watched him for some time, unsure if he was asleep or not. Light sleepers had eventually become her greatest fear. And, also, he was rather handsome. When she'd unsheathed the knife from its place at her hip, his eyes had opened, and he'd looked at her. Confused, if only for a moment. Maybe even intrigued. Why is there a girl standing at the foot of my bed? Petra stood there frozen, unsure what to do in that instant that she could've otherwise used to her advantage.

And then he noticed the knife, and it didn't matter. She didn't have the upper hand anymore, surging forward, straddling him. She'd stabbed at him once and missed, stabbed again and missed. He'd gotten a handful of her hair and ripped so hard that she felt each strand pull and release as it was freed from her scalp. He'd tossed her to the side and she'd rebounded just as soon as her knees hit the ground: springing back to action and plunging the knife up to the hilt in his chest.

She was hurt, but all that was left was the pain then. Just like now.

She could deal with pain if it meant getting the job done.

She sighed, almost in regret for the girl's poor decision of choosing her.

"Big mistake," she said, her voice a million miles away and unfairly present all at once.

[ petra attacks desdemona shaw, 2f ]
rudccpfOqasword
[1121 -- Deep Gash on Back -- 8.5 damage +1 blades]

sword

[D1f Jade Morin - Alyssaimagine]

( paks d5f / intro / no attack )

[attr="class","w460"]

"Jornoth!" Paks gasped, suddenly. She jerked up, her chest heaving and her skin wet with sweat. Her eyes were both wide, and wild. "Where's Jornoth?" Her demand wasn't as sharp as she'd hoped. Instead, it sounded more like she was begging, pleading. Paks looked around. It was too dark to see her in the room, but if someone could have they may have mistaken her for a wild animal. It took a few moments for her settle down, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the cell she was trapped inside. She ran a hand through her dirty hair. It hadn't been brushed since the day she and Jornoth had been taken.

There would be no answer to her question, because no one was there to answer her. For a little while the only thing she could hear was her own breathing. Only when she calmed down did she remember: she was no longer being held the Peacekeepers. Well, not the ones who'd captured her. Now she was imprisoned by other Peacekeepers and she was to be used for their own entertainment. Her captors had released her on the day of the Reaping. She had just been dumped off there, with her hair dirty and matted, her clothes were tattered and ripped. No one had likely even known it was her when she was dropped off by the Peacekeepers.

The only reason she'd been allowed to go was the Reaping, and they had told her that afterwards she would belong to them again. Paks sneered into the dark. Jokes on them, they would never have her again. She'd been Reaped, and now belonged to the Capitol. It wasn't much better than being captured by the Peacekeepers to begin with, but at least it felt kind of good. Like she'd won, even though she had so clearly lost. At least the first set of Peacekeepers didn't get what they wanted. Instead, she would be sentenced to die in the arena, because Paks was no fool. The moment her name had been called, she'd known. It was a death sentence, because there was no way that she could walk out of the arena alive.

Paks had been tortured by the Peacekeepers before her Reaping. She remembered as they placed things under her fingernails, and her body gave an involuntary shudder at the memory. That wasn't the worst they'd done, either, but she wouldn't allow herself to think of the rest. Paks was wounded, partially broken before her name had been called. How could she walk out of this thing alive when she was already so weak? She'd barely been fed, and when she had been fed it had been gruel and the Peacekeepers had laughed when they'd placed it on the ground for her to lap up like a dog. She was weak, she was wounded and there was no way she could walk out.

Even if she had, would she still be the same? The people in this arena, Paks knew, they were innocent. Some even more than she was. Some who had never dreamed of being a rebel, never been captured, never been tortured. Innocent. How could Paks kill innocent people? Innocent children? Paks knew she'd fight if someone attacked her first. She wasn't so foolish as to stand there and let them chop her down. She was a fighter - or she wanted to be one, even if she wasn't trained to fight. Paks would never go down without a fight, but she wouldn't attack some innocent kid, either. Get yourself together, she scolded herself. It's them, or it's you. Paks grit her teeth, and stared into the darkness.

That's when she heard noise. The rattling of metal, the opening of a door. When the light turned on, her first instinct was to blink. It was far too bright, and she couldn't make anything out. Unable to see, she punched at the shape as it neared her. Paks wouldn't go down without a fight. That only earned her kick.

"You don't want to hurt yourself more before the Games, now do you?" Came the voice of the shape. "Settle down."

It was all the warning she would get, but Paks understood: they were here to prepare her for the Games. A pile of clothing was thrown to the ground in front of her, and the Peacekeeper stood back a little, arms crossed. Paks could only manage to stare at him, before she understood: he wasn't going anywhere. She was going to get dressed right there in front of him. After all, he couldn't very well give her any opportunity to escape, now could he? Gingerly, Paks picked the pile of clothing up and inspected it. Her face curled in disgust. It was mock armor. They'd given them something that looked like armor, but it was only there to look good.

"Hurry up," the Peacekeeper said, his voice stern.

Paks managed to glare at him, but she didn't waste time, either. There was no use in delaying the inevitable. Quickly, she stripped off her clothing and replaced the tattered clothes with the fake armor. She glared at the Peacekeeper, as he turned his back and led her toward the arena. The walk to her death was both quicker, and longer than she would have imagined. They turned, they turned, they walked straight, they turned again. Their footsteps echoed in the hallway, and she could hear her heart beat frantically against her chest. Instinctively, she scratched at the skin of her arm. Paks knew it wasn't time to panic, but it was hard not to be afraid.

Still, she was determined to face this. Paks would look strong, and she would not falter. She would not give the Capitol what they wanted: to see her fall. She may not have been given the chance to be a rebel in the war, but in heart, that's what she was. Ever since she was a kid, she'd dreamed of fighting for a right cause and adventure and now she knew for sure that fighting the Capitol was the right choice. Only something evil could make innocent kids fight to the death. Therefore, Paks kept her head up even as her heart beat frantically. She wouldn't let them see her being weak. She would look like a rebel, even as she took her last breath.

Once they arrived at the arena, the Peacekeeper turned around and left. He spared no words for a kid he figured would die, and she didn't feel sorry that he left. She turned her gaze to the other kids, looking at each. Memorizing their faces, knowing that whoever did make it out alive would never forget the faces of the victims. Fighting was soon to begin, however. Some kids wanted to live, and knew if they were going to live, they had to fight. When pushed, people could do anything. Paks swallowed, uneasy at the display.

Paks couldn't focus on that. Instead, she reached for her own sword, felt its weight in her hands. It was much heavier than the sticks she'd fashioned into play swords when they were kids. Her muscles were weaker due to the torture and lack of food, but she could manage to hold it, even if it wasn't as comfortable as she'd liked. Her inspection of the sword was cut off short, however. Blood sprayed the arena, and Paks found her eyes widen. She saw it, but she didn't understand it yet. Her body reacted before her brain. She stepped back, she was observing the dead girl, but she wasn't understanding. Not yet.

Dead. Someone had died. There, now her brain was starting to process the events. Not that processing it was much better. She felt something in her throat. She felt like puking, and she choked on that lump in her throat. Her hand was now sweaty, and held the sword uneasily. Breathe... Paks reminded herself, and took in several deep breaths. She had to focus, or she'd soon be like the dead girl. Just a body. Just blood. Just a memory that would never be erased from the survivor's mind. Paks scanned the other kids and her eyes fell on a girl that had no arm. At first, she thought it due to the Games, but there didn't appear to be a fresh wound.

A girl missing an arm had been Reaped and sent to die. The Capitol, Paks realized, really had no mercy. Before she'd even made up her mind, her feet were already moving. Paks didn't realize it until she stood near the girl, ready to pounce, ready to react if the girl was attacked.

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

(Paks enters the bloodbath, does not attack.)

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

May 9, 2020 12:21:38 GMT -5 thompson harvard - d2b - arc said:

[ d5m september yorgos | post #1 | no attack ]

[ d5m september yorgos | post #2 | no attack ]

{ september }

Sometimes the general height of my family is something I always forget about. I always forget that I can appear as this giant lurking in the shadows for most people because my home was on the outskirts of the district. I typically ran into two people every week at home and they were both generally 6’0, so my figure is something that I never gave consideration to. Upon approaching the younger girl she turned around, face that reddish-pink that a peach holds. Her face was the waterfall, the fountain of youth. The youth of not wanting to die so young, so small. I felt a pang of guilt in my throat as she looked at me in horror. Like I was a monster.

“St – stay away, please.”

I let out a gasp. Not sure of shock, of sadness. I just let out a breath. She was scared. So, so scared. I felt bad for her and I wished I could help her. I could see her entire body tremble as if the world's harshest earthquake possessed her. As a shaking girl in the freezing rain. Her body trembled like the ground that the bombs hit. She was on her hands and knees - as if she were begging, like I were some king to provide her the blessing of life. Like I was her savior.

“Please don’t hurt me.”

My face fell into the form of a sad song; beat slowly humming along, note by note and beat by beat. I could see Noelle in her. Noelle was a girl who loved the idea of fantasy; of this world where horned horses and spells. She was so filled to the brim, quenched by that pitcher of a world where death was not our reality, but happiness. I recognized the vulnerability that I had, my body turned to the crowd of fighting, but I didn’t care. She was scared. The world that she knew - it was all too young, too pure to fall into that darkness Appa was so scared of. And I wish so so bad that I could help her escape from it.

”Oh!” A gulp. ”Uh, no. I’m not here to-” I let out the heaviest of sighs. ”I’m not here to kill you.”

I secured my sword into the belt, making sure it was tight in there. I didn’t want it to fall out and scare her - I didn’t want her to see me as this 6’4 demon that was her death sentence. Because I wasn’t that. I never was- I don’t believe in forcing someone’s life to cease, I only wanted to protect people from being seized of that heart-beating. I crouched down to her level, hoping that somehow I was helping diminish her fear. Of me. Of this world, of whatever would happen to such a girl in this environment. ”I don’t want to hurt you.” A small forced laugh, embarrassment, maybe. ”I’m probably just as scared as you. I don’t want to do any of this.” I tried to force a small smile. The one that Appa always used to comfort me. ”I just didn’t want to be alone. And well,” a sigh, ”you looked alone.”

I remember the feeling of loneliness, really. The months after Appa left back onto his route of the war never felt the same. I was empty - alone - deprived of a comfort I never knew I needed so badly. That feeling of a cauldron in your heart bubbling up like a charm had been cast on you. That pang in my stomach upon realizing they were the person I loved so much. I love Appa. I can’t leave them.

”I am not going to kill you.”

[no attack]