It's Not A Phase [ Bloodbath: Upper District Tributes ]

[L△LIA]

1F v. 1M v. 2F v. 2M v. 3F v. 3M

Between each Hunger Games the colosseum has been rented out as a venue for concerts, theatrical plays, and, recently, even the occasional war reenactment. Perhaps that's what inspired the idea to flood the arena and set sail to four antiquated brigantine ships, but asking various government officials or the building's board of directors about who to compliment or condemn for the highly controversial decision to cash in several years of profits in one spectacular event only seems to start arguments that ricochet in every possible direction. Some people want credit. Others want absolutely nothing to do with any mention of this folly.

Today's sold out crowd doesn't much care who decided what. The important thing is that there are ships! The heart of the arena has been transformed into a miniature sea and there are ships sailing in it! No one in the audience appears disappointed as they find their seats and gesture with enthusiasm at the sight below.

To the north is a ship with sails of gothic lilac billowing in the wind. Rather than appearing saccharine, the color evokes a darker mood appropriate to today's event. One by one the nearby tributes of the Upper Districts attempt to climb aboard in order to escape shark infested waters. Once the soles of all six children have set foot upon the deck a flag is raised at the boat's stern, fluttering above the name It's Not A Phase painted below. Throughout history raising a Jolly Roger has signaled battle and today is no different, despite how the shitty clip art of a boat that graces the flag's design indicates that maybe things won't be too serious after all! No need to be so dramatic, Enoby.

Good morning and welcome to the 5th Hunger Games bloodbath, Tributes! This is a very special games and I'm so excited to have all of you in it. First and foremost, I would like to encourage each and every one of you to read the rules, as it makes life a lot easier for everyone when all parties involved are aware of the rules and expectations.

For smooth operation of the bloodbath, please be aware of the following:

1. The bloodbath is currently open for non-combat posting only. No tribute may attack another tribute during non-combat posting. All tributes may post freely. Turn order is not yet in effect.

2. Combat posting and turn order for the bloodbath will begin on Sunday, May 16th at 12:00pm EST. For clarity the Gamemaker will post on this thread to officially signal the shift to combat posting. Please do not post any attacks prior to this post.

3. Tributes who elected to dive for treasure must claim their bonus weapon before combat posting begins or they will forfeit the item.

4. A tribute may be attacked up to TWO times between each of their posts. (An exception to this rule will occur if randomized dice are in use by all tributes.)

5. Tributes are required to vary their attacks and may not attack the same target two rounds in a row. (An exception to this rule will occur if randomized dice are in use by all tributes or if the fight is a 1v1.)

6. Weapons are non-transferable (even upon death). Thrown weapons become lost.

7. Upon the first death in this thread, please pause posting and wait for the Gamemaker to post dice tables for each tribute. The next two attacks of each tribute will have randomized targets, due to disorientation from the effects of a cannon firing IC. Afterwards combat will resume as normal.

8. Alliances are not allowed (IC or OOC). Writers may make general OOC requests for attacks to be directed at their own tribute so long as no one is specifically being asked/pressured to change attack targets or being asked not to attack a certain tribute, etc.

9. Other rule adjustments for this bloodbath are as follows:

- Turn order will be in effect for the entirety of combat. Tributes will roll new initiative upon progressing to the Top Four semi-finals 1v1s.
- Attacking in this first round of the bloodbath is not required if it is not in character for your tribute. However, once combat begins, any non-attack post will result in that tribute taking damage via mutts. The tribute will roll the mutt dice in their post. Mutt attacks will not count toward the two attacks per round limit on a tribute. See Mutt Dice for more info.
- Writers may request additional mutt attacks against their tribute only in this round of combat. Do not proceed to Round Two if you are not interested in being Victor. Plan ahead for your deaths — six way fights will go quickly.

10. Other rules about bloodbath combat still stand:

- All tributes are given one cutlass sword.
- There is no fleeing, but separate threads for death posts are allowed.
- Fillers are not allowed at any point (and will result in death due to inactivity).
- All dice codes must be immediately obvious, even if you are using a table. Either put it beneath the table entirely, or make it easily accessible.
- You must specify who you're attacking. Please include district number/gender in addition to the tribute's name (for example: 1F Jane Doe).
- No stations are available this Games.

ANY violations of these rules may result in an additional 8 damage dealt to the offending tribute.

Each tribute's damage will be updated on the Retro Hunger Games Engine, so pay attention and don't forget to refresh the page!

Starting health has already been adjusted in the engine.

Today's Weather
The sky is pale blue and perfectly clear with the sun directly overhead.
Humidity: low
Temperature: 82F / 28C

Good luck Tributes and may the odds be ever in your favor!



(Header graphics by the incredible Tris <3)

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

Poet Dolamite would have thought being an actual prisoner would come naturally, after having been a prisoner of his own mind for sixteen years. But there is nothing natural about being trapped between iron bars. Firstly, it is far too hot. Sweat has made a sticky mess of his dark curls, flattening them against his skull. Second, the clothes he was given absolutely reek. He cannot stand the smell of them, and now of his own body. Third, the space is too small. He cannot stretch, cannot stride.

It’s almost like they want him to suffer. But suffer for what? Simply to suffer?

Poet paces. He squats, then reaches one long finger out to tentatively graze the metal. When he touches it, soft skin to cool iron, he jumps, as though electrified.

And then he sneezes, spraying a fine mist into the suffocating cell.

“Hello?” He demands as politely and firmly as possible.

Something clicks.

Poet sneezes again, this time more urgently. He hunkers down into the corner of the cell, moth-eaten sleeve pressed against his face. He can barely see over the tattered fabric and that’s just fine with him. He squashes the tickle at the back of his throat, feeling a momentary sense of triumph.

And then the heavy iron gate creaks open.

Poet, District Two Male, unable to recoil any further into his cell drops the faded sleeves and leans his face into the reflected sunlight.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[D2M Poet Dolamite enters the 5th Games]

[aya]

I punch a shark in the face.

Okay, I'm not the most practiced boxer and I've spent even less time swimming — the river back home is like someone tried to steep unexploded ordinance in industrial runoff, and I'm not like the other girls who think it would be neat to grow a third eye or develop telekinesis or photosynthesis or tetanus, so I've steered clear. So it's less like a punch and more like a flailing slow motion back-hand.

In between gasping breaths and mouthfuls of seawater, I take a moment to appreciate how objectively cool it is that I just punched a shark in the face. I deserve that split second, where Crime Steven is a capable badass with a real shot at not getting murdered by any random kid, on account of the fact that the split second that follows is filled with the instant regret of serving my best knuckle sandwich to an animal so renowned for its teeth that it doesn't leave behind any other record of its life when it dies.

Yes I'm from District Three. Yes I know shark facts. We exist.

If I weren't too busy trying to rescue my hand from its mouth, I'd even appreciate its cute little whiskers or its dopey flat head. Instead I can only appreciate that its rows and rows and rows of teeth are relatively small, even if it's not nearly as docile as Angular's tattered, faded copy of Tropical Marine Life Illustrated Encyclopedia assured me that nurse sharks would be. Not that I ever expected to meet one for myself. Or anything else from its pages. Or from any of the other 'borrowed' books she'll find stashed under the mattress in my room. It's not my fault I love an encyclopedia.

Doing my best doggy paddle out of the jaws of danger and towards the nearest boat, I have regrets about not bothering to look before I leapt. But only one or two. Really, did I have a choice in the matter? It's not like I forgot what happened last year. There's no doubt they'd send crocodiles or whatever to come get the kids too scared or too unwilling to face the sharks, and given the choice between getting barrel rolled to death or just being the regular kind of maimed, I'd rather have my fighting chance.

I'm a good climber, but that doesn't count for much when I've got all this salt water up my nose, down my windpipe, and sloshing around in my stomach throwing off my balance, and my eyes feel like two capers stuck on my face. I get one hand on a porthole on the side of the nearest boat, steady enough to catch a couple relieved breaths.

Another shark bumps me, sandpaper skin dragging across the soles of my feet, politely informing me that:

a) I lost my boots between my cell and the ship,

b) it's been a long-ass time since I've done anything about the calluses on my heels,

and c) I am about to become a second kind of snack.

With a deep breath I heave myself upwards, one set of toes finding the gunport and the other bracing against the bilge. I reach for some rigging, but then the ship heaves or my brain does — my hand clasps around empty air. Just like a racing drone with an amateur pilot pointing my nose towards the sun, I find myself on the losing end of the war against gravity. No amount of windmilling my arms can compensate for my lack of propellers, and my stomach drops towards the water before the rest of my body follows.

Hey, I've still got that shot at not getting murdered by some random kid — all I've got to do is drown.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[Tom]

"What do you mean I have to wear this? I am Arianne freaking Blackburn, at least give me a cleaner shirt." The whole thing was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. Being sent to the Fifth Hunger Games by the capitol is one thing, but not being provided the accommodations she requires to be presentable. It was unheard of. She was going to write a stern letter to the president about her stay when she wins the whole thing. This was her pathetic father's fault for being too weak in business deals. Making the worst decisions for the family and knowing they'd be punished for his wrong doings.

Arianne was angry. Fully and wholly angered at the fact her father had made mistakes in not supporting the lovely and beautiful capitol, the same capitol she only got glimpses of from her cell and the journey to the Capitol. The peacekeepers weren't too kind to her, unlike they were at home. Growing up surrounded by people who didn't deserve her attention, but here, she's seen as the same garbage like her district partner. The gross poor boy couldn't even dress himself tastefully and she didn't quite remember him other than his boisterously behavior in the cells and showers they were forced through. Forgettable by all accounts, she looks back to the outfit they've given her, staring at the blouse which is old and smells of old people. So gross.

Rolling the sleeves up and tightening the belt as tight as possible to just keep the outfit from slipping off, she feels like a mess. Arianne should be shining like the bright star she knows she is. Blowing people out of the water because she was a Blackburn, daughter to a war hero and savior of the districts. Instead, she feels grimy in the billowing white shirt and faux leather- Couldn't they afford the expensive stuff?- that barely covers up her smaller frame. The ugly greenish color of the pants and vest just accentuating the worst parts of her smaller frame, feeling like she was already drowning in cloth. The boring belts were the only thing keeping the whole outfit from falling off of her and the tie she did around the side of the blouse to keep it tighter to her body to be able to function.

The capitol was ridiculous for thinking anyone could pull this off.

They were going to be on National TV in these things.

Pathetic.

The cage raises from the hidden place they've been stuck in for the past bit of time. A shaking sensation in her step as she stops in place, holding onto the obnoxious hat placed on her head to avoid it falling off. A ghost of a feeling bubbling up in her chest, nerves she figures, a worry in her fingers as they shake. Bravery; she's never had a complete grasp of it. Still too young to understand what's going on around her, the memories of being in a basement when the shaking of the earth happened, wanting to ask mom what the strange sensation was. War. The same answer every time. War would be starting again. Instead of her father, it would be her own. A war built for her to shine like the star she always was going to be.

Arianne didn't want to die.

The fear of losing everything flashing across her again, the tears she had shed on the first day traveling to the capitol alone were no longer there. Instead, she rises through the place up into the light of a beautiful, warm, sunny day. The sounds of a crowd roaring at the anticipation of their arrival; the stars of her show. Instead of focusing on the crowd, she can see the expanse of water, lapping up at the edge of her cage. Drowning in clothing seemed better than actually drowning. Damn, the world really was against her today. "Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous." The buoy floats just a bit away as she rolls up her sleeves even more, pulling the hat on her head off and stepping out of the boots that had holes in them.

Pointless to even wear most of the things she was if she was going to have to swim. Thankfully, her father had hired someone to teach her with her studies. The good thing about a father who swears another war will come is he's always preparing them for anything. Days spent in the lake on the outskirts of One, where she barely could swim unlike her brothers. The worry builds once more as she knew she wasn't the greatest swimmer in the world, but she'd just have to make do. The day was just getting more and more ridiculous. The president surely would be getting a nasty letter from her after this.

Hopefully, some of the others drown.

Everything would be much easier if they did.

Tossing the hat and boots overboard into the water, only to see the tell tale sign of fins in the water. "Are you kidding me? Sharks?" Arianne was fuming at the sight as her hat and shoes disappear into the nothingness of blue. Water splashing and nothing left, but herself in a cage and the buoy lapping over the waves. A sword tied up completely to the floating buoy, too far away for comfort. "You'll be hearing from my father about this!" Her voice goes to the crowd, someone laughing at her entire demeanor. Anger boiling through her skin, until she does the one thing she has to do.

"Damnit. Daddy better buy me a whole new closet after this."

The water isn't nice. The feeling of the water pushing past her ears and up her nose as she pulls herself back up to the top feeling herself cough for a moment. The water is cold, a shiver already starting through her body before she even dares to move once more. Feet treading through the water to keep her afloat as she pulls the cutlass from the white buoy, glimmering under the summer. A shock to the system as she stares into the blue of the water, noticing a glimmering from the bottom of the water. Arianne wasn't the greatest swimmer, but she starts towards the strange ship floating in the water, figuring others would end up there.

Reaching the ship was the easy part, but trying to climb aboard seemed like a task and a half. Other kids like her desperately trying to pull themselves up the wood. For a second, Arianne thinks she's gonna be the first one up. Feet planted halfway on the sides of the boat, until the water swishes suddenly, the fin of a shark coming into view, until it rips her underwater, pulling her into the depths. Red gushing from her leg, mixing with the water. Pain blossoming into petals along her skin as she holds her breath, kicking with her other leg. The pain is a realization that she would hurt. Death has never crossed her mind, but in the jaws of a shark, she can feel herself desperately sinking further and further down, until she lets go of the cutlass, kicking hard once into the nose of the shark, desperately trying to escape it's grasp.

Pathetic.

Arianne Blackburn felt pathetic.

The shark swims away letting go of her flesh, blood oozing through the water with a visible red from the wound. Her eyes avoid looking towards the bottom half of her body. The pants have been ripped free and she's missing part of her outfit. Sinking lower and lower, the bottom of this ocean comes across her vision and she desperately wants to scream. Desperate to get rid of the little air she has in her lungs, but a glimmer of something metallic stops her. Large prongs on one end, a heavy weapon sea-scarred over, the sight is strange, but terrifying. Reaching for it, she pulls and pulls, until it dislodges and slowly, she starts floating up with the new item.

Kicking harder and harder, burning through the pain of the shark attack, she desperately clings on to the need for air. Desperation in her form as she can remember her teacher yell at her to do better, be better, and stay focused. Never lose sight on the sky, otherwise she'd drown. Pushing herself over and over again, she propels herself forward, kicking off the bottom and straight up to the surface, where the weight of the new weapon gets heavier, but she pushes it over the side of the boat. A desperate gasp for air fills her lungs before she gets angry once more.

"No! Daddy better buy me a whole new mansion after that."

Pulling herself up and over the boat, Arianne's breath flowing heavily as she pants from exertion for a moment. Desperately clinging to the fact that she made it to the ship with the strange heavy weapon. Eyes scanning the deck to see the name It's Not A Phase written with an ugly flag and even uglier colored sails. The capitol was ridiculous if they thought this boat was fashionable. Lilac was so last spring.

"Or a boat?"

Her eyes wander over the exterior before smiling.

"Definitely a boat."

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

(Arianne Blackburn enters the 5th Games and claims her Fishing Trident)

[L△LIA]

Turn order is now in effect, starting with Wyatt.

Ship One
90/13 — D3m Wyatt Gartens [ Rave ]
78/9 — D2F Talia Ames [ Aza ]
63/11 — D1M Ramsey Robichaux [ Dars ]
32/4 — D2M Poet Dolamite [ Kay ]
31/4 — D1F Arianne Blackburn [ Tom ]
18/19 — D3f Crime Steven [ Aya ]

Regardless of whether or not an intro has been posted, at this time all six tributes are considered to be on board the boat and all six tributes are eligible to be attacked. There is no penalty for not having posted an intro.

Attack posts are now required from this point on (unless a tribute is opting to take damage via mutts).

Please review the rules in the initial post of this thread if you have not yet done so as there have been several significant updates for this Games. Thank you and good luck!

[Deleted]

And in Wyatt Garten's last moments, he was nothing if not petty. 

Gleeful, almost, dumbfounded with how right he had been all along. The other tributes yelling from their cages, mixed emotions all around and Wyatt shouts a proud "I freaking knew it!" from inbetween the skinny gaps in the iron bars. "I knew it, I always knew it!" Three years in advance, a boy who knew the exact day he'd get reaped. Not a matter or if but when, he's fascinated with the crowd, with what the Capitol looks like. 

Shit.

A graveyard held together by sadists and demons, it's as sick as he always pictured it. Wyatt knew they'd be shipped out in cargo trains, repurposed for the Capitol's newest resource. Killer kids, he's thought this whole thing out a thousand times. He clocked the Fifth, the fact that he would be in this cage with a mouth that never knew how to shut up. Why would he? 

Not even death could shut him up at this point, take the record to his tombstone. Whatever footage outlives him, the truth will be reorganized back into a lie again but Wyatt Garten will always lie here, right behind this iron cage-

"Oh." 

"Hello?"

"Oh- oh no," it creaks as it draws open. The lock coming undone right in his grip and it echoes twenty three times over, the splashing of water sounding before the water browns. It bleeds in real time and that pitiful glee is stained red as he feels his feet glue to the starter cell. He'd notice the water before, the boats and buoys -- it'd be impossible not to -- but it hadn't clicked that this is where the games started. 

"Hey, HEY! I can't swim!" Wyatt shouts to the crowd, leaning off the corner of the iron bar face in order to look into the stadium's heights. Somebody's got to hear him, right? How is this fair? Geography ain't made equal, he squints from the Capitolites to the tributes and- do they want a district four victor? 

Oh, they must. 

Sacre bleu.

Okay-? Okay, he tries to ready himself before jumping. Coming up with some kind of plan other than passing out and drowning; he'd fight the district fours, loyalists or something. How did those other rebels piss them off? Whatever they did, just do that; duh. "NO- no, go away no no, no thanks," swaying on the iron gating, first it's just one seagull that lands next to him. 

Swaying over head, a second one, perched on his cage despite how he tries to shoo them. They're cracked up, beaks as sharp as butcher knives and eye sockets deep enough to cake up with crust, dirt and blood. "Ow," little bitch, it's just a few seconds before they're picking at his hands, desperately grappling at the iron bars before falling to the depths below. 

It feels like sinking, shutting his eyes as tight as he can from the salt water, it's in his mouth and hair and the cuts on his hands. Stinging and sheer cold, he gasps for air once- twice, before getting caught in the waves. Wyatt's hardly use to the sun, but god, the ocean?! Never seen it, not in his fifteen years of hiding away in his bedroom making podcasts. He's met with the damn Cutgulls every time he breaks to the surface, but he swears there's something underneath him. 

Large, looming, a shadow circling in a wave pool he didn't ask to be in. 

"I- HATE it here," lapping at every foot he can closer to the pirate ships. God, whatever hell is waiting for him there he doesn't even care; at least it'll be drier than this. "Hey, watch it- dude!" He feels a hand on his dreads before he's pushed deeper under the surface, desperately trying to stay above the water line. It's one of the other tributes, stepping on him in the water just to get on the ship. 

This place sucks. 

The Capitol better hopes he dies here, because he's got enough intel to make the podcast of a life time. Wyatt's exposing this whole thing once he gets back him, or even once he gets up this damn boat.  

Wyatt finds a foothold in the purple wooden planks, digging his nails into the starboard before climbing his way to the ladder. Coughing up anything he can, salt water in every nook and cranny that exists inside of him, saline sticking to the sides of his stomach. The birds swirl over head as he makes his way to the final heave, dragging himself onto the floor of the ship. 

The It's Not A Phase.

What a name. 

"SOMEONE GET THESE FUCKING BIRDS."

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[ wyatt gets attacked by 'cutgulls' ! ]
AZEnJau2Zi1-8
[6: 2097 — deep gash on back of head, 9 damage]

1-8

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

talia ames

It's cold. Not the type of cold that makes my bones feel brittle though, it's colder than that. Like something has touched my soul — I mean, poetic, I guess, considering the odds of me dying are stacked against me. Because I'm not the sister who played soldier and killed her way to glory, I'm not an extension of her destruction, not even a thread from her fabric. I feel the cold here, and that means that surviving and thriving doesn't seem doable. Maybe if this whole situation was a little bit warmer, I'd feel more at home, I'd wreck some shit and save myself in the process.

I wish I could feel something in response to getting reaped; something, anything because it'd be nice to not feel like a piece of meat being thrown to the hounds. Some sort of payback or karma for the people who died because Adder gets to live — as if my body is worth anything, as if the hell I've bent isn't good enough to stop me from getting hurt. Fuck this — I've been sentenced to death and feel nothing, not even an ounce of regret or remorse. And I don't feel sorry for myself either because nobody as bad as me gets the good things in life. In trouble, I've always found peace.

Violet and Starlight better be crossing their fucking fingers though, because I don't want to die. Man, I don't want to die at all. Because there's still a whole fucking world out there, there's still graffiti that needs fixing up, there's still bags of hope to steal from people who have a dwindling light in their eye. There's still Violet to terrorise and Adder to get mad at when she brings her dodgy shit into the living room. Blood — can't outrun it, can't escape it, and though at times, I hate it, I really fucking hate it — I'd never want to let go of it without saying goodbye to them.

They are what makes those four walls feel like home. Not the shit I steal or the spray paint by my bed: it's family. Fucking family.

How did Adder manage to do this? I can't help but feel all sorts when I think about how she made it out — man, that's my sister and I was so fucking proud. Yet there's an uneasiness in my head. Resentment, I guess, because the danger she's put us all in is a life sentence of its own. I need her spirit with me if I have any hope of making it out alive.

Because if I don't — what the fuck does Ames mean then? So much power but belittled all because of my wrongdoing? My corpse can't carry that burden even with the rigor mortis, that shame is too heavy for a human to ever bear.

Caged but untamed — I'll be the same Talia I've always been. They can't put me behind some iron bars and think it'll affect my will. I've seen worse, coped with worse, heck, I've lived and breathed toxic fumes and I've turned out fine. A few scratches on my armour, maybe a kink or two — but that's nothing to knock me down. I have and always will be a troublemaker, a hell raiser. I hope they're fucking scared.

The water is the first problem, though, because I can't swim.

Desperation sweeps across my body as the water moves past my eyes and ears, consuming me in its unforgiving entirety. It feels like it is tying me to the depths, and when I look down, my vision blurs the darkness into something that is more inviting. Black has always been my favourite colour but I've never wanted to shy away from it so much; my feet kick about hopelessly as if my life depends on it, maybe because it doesn't depend on it — and this water is killing me slowly.

My head bobs above water for a second and I catch a deep breath, savouring it in my lungs. The water is cold and I can't even feel a hint of warmth to make me feel good about this. My spine tingles as the water ripples and sparkles in the dystopian light. It's not pretty, it's not art — it has been crafted to kill. Cruel in its critical attack, this water is scorched.

I kick around until I reach the surface, sorrily swimming to the shadow of a boat. Grabbing onto it is a relief I've not felt before, man, my lungs finally inflate and my body stops fizzing like the cogs are turning too fast. There's no seizing up and no fires in this machine because there's chaos calling my name. A few chokes later and I'm on my feet physically, but mentally, I am at the edge.

Other voices linger in the air. Male and female sounds trickle from both sides of the ship into my head. I don't feel afraid knowing I'm not alone, though, simply because I know that I can't. I've probably seen worse anyway, can a preteen really compete with my father's execution? Yeah, didn't think so.

But everything depends on this, on me. Dying is the easy part but nobody really remembers the murdered. I don't want to be ashes. I want to have a cigarette at the end of this and tap the ashes away, forgetting the world in favour of my own nutso imagination.

Fuck pressure. Dying is a sacrifice everyone else is going to have to make, but not me.

A boy drags himself onto the ship, bleeding from a bird attack. Seems like he's already set on making that sacrifice. Good for him.

"The birds, the birds, the fucking birds. Yeah, because they're the real problem." My hands dive for pockets that aren't there. Instead, there's a cutlass and I think that's even better.

"I'm the Captain. No first mates." 

Infamy is forever, it's not a fucking phase.

[ d2f talia ames attacks d3m wyatt gartens ; cutlass ]

mONWJ|3qB4sword

[ 1148 -- Deep Gash on Chest -- 9.5 damage ]

sword

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

He was stunned at the sight of it, hands clasped against the bars of his cage as the smell of fresh water began to lap at his feet. He looked at home in the ridiculous outfit, strange as it might have been, and for some reason, he felt like it empowered him. Made all the things he wanted to do real. Made all the things he was going to do okay. Of course, if he was being honest, there was a certain level of what the fuck is this swimming through his thoughts at the sight of the sharks circling the the map, the swaying ships rocking to and fro, the eager crowds hungry for the blood that would soon be shed.

He'd never been one to back down from fear, so the moment the cage door dropped, he was in the water. He'd practically landed on top of one at first, disoriented as he sank beneath the choppy artificial beach just long enough for the thing's teeth to drag themselves along the outside of Ramsey's right thigh. He grunted, tried to scream but it came out as little more than a gargle with the waves slapping into his face. He elbowed it hard enough that he left a mark and it quickly swam away.

Leave it to Ramsey Robichaux, but if there was one thing he could remember, it was a fear tactic, and he knew that slapping a shark was the easiest way to ward one off. They're scared of you until they know you're scared of them, so then the trick is to not be fucking scared by them.

He swam down and tugged an axe free of its position before breaking for the surface again. He spat water, arms weighed down by cloth sleeve and sharpened silver. His hair stuck to his face and the white of his eyes stung themselves pink. He made it to the ship just behind the skinny boy who'd been a few cages over from him, so he used the boy's head as a stepping stool to make up onto the platform.

"Dibs on short-fry!" he called coughing free of the water he'd swallowed on his way over. He felt electric. He felt alive. His fingers twitched and his eyes were alight- he hated his old man but in that moment, he understood the rush of it. The want for violence. The need for it, even. He was not a teenager and they were not teenagers either. They were not forced here. They were not trapped. This was voluntary. This was their own mistake and his reward, a lion who saw a gazelle drift from its herd. He was so hungry for it, waiting for the skinny boy to find his way over only for some birds and Panem's worst philosopher to try and swoop in and ruin Ramsey's fucking day.

He had half a mind right then to kick the bitch square in the chest and send her back over the edge, but he'd spent a lot of time planning this- more attention maybe than anything Ramsey Robichaux had given anything else. He was reckless by nature, and he was hungry for it, but he had to set the trap before the pray could wander into it. He turned to the boy with the blue eyes that had lingered on his body in the showers. From District Two, if Ramsey remembered correctly.

"Wanna be my errand boy?"

He wiped away the water that was dripping down his jawline with his free hand, a devilish smirk slicing his face in half just as easily as a knife could have.

"You do what I say and in return I don't chop off your head 'til everyone else is dead."

Why has no one else been doing this? he thought, his teeth set on edge by the sounds of the flag clasps banging against the metallic pole. He pointed his finger at the girl who'd just tried to take his first kill from him.

"Target Number One. No negotiation."

He picked his axe up, flipped it around to test its weight, and barreled over to them with a sort of glee that almost felt child-like.

"Let's take a little off the top, Darlin!"

^{[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]}

[ramsey attacks talia, axe]
FfN2OyPfa9axe
[11081 -- Deep Gash on Neck -- 10.0 damage]

axe

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

He’d not forgotten where he was but the sun had felt so good that for a moment, his situation did not seem quite so dire. How bad could life be when the sun graced one’s face? Poet took another deep breath in as he toed the edge of his open cage. Sunshine, an abundance of water, a buoy with a thin sword. What more could he ask for?

He smiled a little at his own joke. Then, he wrapped one hand around the cage door’s bars and leaned out, reaching with the other hand. The buoy remained frustratingly out of reach. “C’mon,” he murmured, long fingers grasping at humidity. He stretched a little further, leaning and leaning and -

A shadow passed beneath him.

“What the -?”

Poet lost his grip and fell into the salty water belly first.

The decaying leather vest suctioned against his chest, scavenged boots filling with water, weighing him down. Poet clawed his way to the surface, heaving in air and water and absolute terror in equal measure. He grabbed for the buoy, becoming entangled in the line.

Something coarse swiped against his side.

He hadn’t swum in years, not since summer camp in the mountains as a child. But he put arm over arm and kicked his legs. Between gasping breaths he spotted the hull of a ship and dragged his body towards it. The adrenaline was so powerful, flooding his veins faster than the water flooded his lungs. He scrambled against the side of the ship breaking finger nails. At last he flopped onto the deck, a fish out of water, mouth opening and shutting, salty water dripping out of one side of his mouth.

The sun above no longer warmed him. It pierced right through the sodden clothes and weeping wounds on his legs.

He hadn’t even the felt the shark bites in the water. But now, sea drying to salt in his hair, he felt each sharp tooth.

Poet rolled onto his side, fetal.

It didn’t help.

He yelped as he levered the sword to come to his feet. His boots squelched, water and blood mixing into a miasma. He’d never felt so disgusting - and disgusted - in his entire life. Maybe there was a shower or even just a hose? The little lake boats he’d known as a child always had something for washing down the hull. He was about to ask the others who had climbed to safety beneath the lilac sails about it. But then, none of them looked terribly friendly.

And one was being accosted by sea gulls. "SOMEONE GET THESE FUCKING BIRDS."

Poet lifted his chin. "Perhaps it's merely a matter of discovering what they want. What motivates them?" One of the gulls diving for Wyatt swooped directly over Poet, depositing a little present on his sodden vest. He gagged, backing away from the boy and the birds. Maybe the water wasn't so bad. Maybe the bites up on his calves were more like nibbles and he was being a big baby about it. He was about to take his chances with the sharks when he arrived, tanned and slick with sweat and somehow perfectly at ease.

"Wanna be my errand boy?"

"Uh."

The English language can be so slippery.

"You do what I say and in return I don't chop off your head 'til everyone else is dead. Target Number One. No negotiation."

"Yes sir," Poet conceded with a slight smirk.

And then realized he was deadly serious. Poet stepped back as Ramsey struck at the girl. He didn't just draw blood; he left a wound that would surely scar. If she survived.

If she survived. If any of us survive.

The thought made him cold to the bone. Almost mechanically he lifted the thin blade, some deeper muscle memory responding to the instinctual terror. At that long-ago summer camp he’d taken some fencing lessons, at least enough to know how to hold a rapier. This weapon was heavier, weighted differently, but it was still functionally the same. Right? He really, really regretted not paying better attention now.

“I believe the traditional opening is: en garde!”

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[Poet Dolamite attacks Talia; cutlass]

sPmG5buS_|sword

[Shallow Cut on Left Bicep -- 3.5 damage]

sword

[Tom]

Obnoxious.

That's the first word that comes to mind when others start arriving on the ship deck. Interrupting her moment of rest; focusing on the ship rather than her bleeding leg. Blackburns were meant to be tough. A family built upon riches and strength; untouchable to the filth of One and the damn kids of the damn rebels her father despised. Birds swirl up ahead, eyeing them like hungry vultures, waiting for their bodies to fall. The birds reminded her of the vultures back home; swirling carcasses along dead roads. Spiraling overhead, until they land with a loud caw, ripping flesh from bone and blood coated lips. Majestic, yet terrifying.

"SOMEONE GET THESE FUCKING BIRDS."

Pathetic.

The birds crash down at a smaller boy; cutting across his head. Blood oozing to life; she can't feel her fingers. Eyes stuck in shock at the sight. Blood wasn't common in One. Arianne hadn't seen wounds that deep. For a moment, she feels nauseous. Her stomach curling in on itself with a distasteful feeling, but she stays stable, focusing on keeping the heavy trident off the ground. The damn thing was heavy and she hated the way the ugly clothes they gave her stuck to her small frame. Pant leg ripped entirely, she can feel the warm air of the sun on her wound. The ache of pain starting to come back stronger than before.

Her father better get her a damn boat for all of this.

"The birds, the birds, the fucking birds. Yeah, because they're the real problem." Looking up once more, staying back, she can see her. The girl who had rumors surrounding her according to the Peacekeepers who talked boisterously about all of the tributes. Features of kids she would never get to meet, but hearing a rumor and seeing one were two things. This new girl didn't deserve to be fighting for the crown. Her sister already had one. No one would take Arianne's crown, especially not a victor's sister. "I'm the Captain. No first mates." Definitely, not her.

Arianne Blackburn was already the captain.

The others can choke.

Blood comes forth from Bird Boy when the blade reaches him. Arianne has to look away from it, focus on the others who are arriving onto her ship. All of them would learn. This ship belonged to Arianne and Arianne alone. Despite looking like a mess because the capitol couldn't put her in a deluxe room with all the delicious delicacies; They would learn. It's in this moment that she can notice the trash from her own district climbing over the ship. Loud and annoying, built strong in his stature, but not worthy of being from One. Desperate kids who deserve nothing, but the suffering they caused themselves.

People like him couldn't pull themselves up and actually do good work.

Annoying.

"Wanna be my errand boy?"

Missing the other boy completely, she didn't realize pretty boy was even there. Forgettable. They all were forgettable, unlike her. The words were rude. The trash from her district seemed to think highly of himself. Arianne couldn't have that. Boys like him were nothing more than the bottom of the barrel in One. Her brothers wouldn't even glance at him; he'd be ignored for being a pest. Die like the rest of the trash men and women in One after the war. Drinking themselves into early grave while people like her father and mother pull the district together.

Pathetic.

"You do what I say and in return I don't chop off your head 'til everyone else is dead."

Arianne avoids their sight; standing away from the larger group that seems to form.

"Target Number One. No negotiation."

Idiotic.

The trash was idiotic. Arianne didn't even listen as the guy's words come out with an amusement that'd be grating. Pretty boy deserved better. Pretty boy deserved to follow an actual royal; not some trashy boy who threatened to chop off anyone's head. Boys were gross. Clearly, there was something pretty boy saw in the trash to follow along. "Yes sir," Boys were definitely gross. Arianne had grown up around her brothers who fought like mad men. She'd seen plenty of aggressive shows of strength to mask their fragile egos. The trash of One definitely was pushing his ego up and pretty boy was just another tool in the guy's arsenal.

"Ugh. Boys."

Rolling her eyes, whispering the words under her breath as she watches Pretty Boy attack the Victor's Sister. A nerdy line from his lips; which continues to prove her point of all of them being undeserving of her crown. Blackburns were above and beyond the level of those commoners. Pathetic kids with no reputation that didn't deserve to even be in her presence. Arianne had grown up surrounded by businessmen who didn't know she could hear them. Her father would always tell her to never stand out when she wanted to wreck the rest of the competition. Under the radar is how someone wants to fly in any sort of business and when it comes to this blood games; she could understand why.

No one has even glanced at her.

Not a single weapon had been thrown at her.

Sticking out when there's too many people was a bad thing. Let them bleed in front of her, spill blood that she doesn't have to. All of them would die in the end anyways. They just could do her dirty work for her. A smile on her lips as she focuses on staying away from the fight that was unfolding with the Trash, Pretty Boy, Bird Boy, and the Victor's sister. Arianne could see when she wasn't needed. As long as she kept an eye on them, she could jump in when they're barely standing still.

Know when to strike.

That's what her father always said.

A sound comes from the side of the ship, feet against wood with the sound of a metallic clanging ringing in her ears. Another person seemed to be coming; the sound was barely noticeable, but since she's nowhere near the fighting aboard the ship, she steps next to where the sound is coming from, looking over the edge to see a girl climbing the anchor. Stepping back, she can feel her mind starting to rush. Could Arianne take her? Could Arianne deal with this girl while the other four fight just steps away? There's time, but she only has so much.

Damnit, her father was going to have to buy her a whole district if things just continued to go like this.

Were they even watching?

It's her father's bad business that got her here. Her mother and brother surely would watch, but her father was a busy man. Part of her wished she could see any of them here. Sitting in the stands, watching her in these moment where she'd fight for the crown her family rightfully deserves. The Blackburns stood at the top; built from silver. Tougher than any other family in One, Arianne was certain no one could compare to them. Not a single person in her presence was worthy of her time, but this was the game. Kill or be killed.

It was only a matter of time before anyone noticed her.

Might as well make a name for herself.

"Daddy better buy me a whole new district for this."

Arianne doesn't wait. She needed to take matters into her own hands. The fabric around her fumbles with the open air; the heavy trident held up barely by her own two hands. Her brothers would tell her to avoid getting close; that's when people strike the worst in a fight. Arianne could remember when her brothers would rough house, pinning one another to the floor laughing loudly. All she wanted was to be crowned already and make it home to her family. Being treated like a commoner had already pissed her off, but she missed her pretty dresses and books that littered her room. All she wanted was to be back there and see her family, even if they weren't at the same level as her.

Pulling the trident up, she can see the new girl arriving to the scene.

This was not a phase.

It was her time to shine.

The crown was meant for Arianne Blackburn.

She would prove it.

"Ew, you don't deserve to even be on this ship."

The words leave her lips as she charges forward with her head held high.

"Go sleep with the fishes."

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

(Arianne Blackburn D1F attacks Crime Steven 3f; Trident)
06NNdZcIIvspear
(miss)

spear

[aya]

Now that I've crashed back into the water, I'm starting to think that this arena isn't too different from the nasty river back home. My eyes are on fire, but I force myself to keep them open:

* on the off chance that it's a little radioactive or whatever, 'cause being able to shoot lasers out of them would come in handy about now;

* cause I'd rather not swim directly into the jaws of a big honking shark;

* to check out whatever shiny thing is catching the stabs of sunlight.

Look, you can take a salvager out from the encampment under the overpass on the long-abandoned go-kart track, but my name is Crime and you're never gonna keep me from hustling. I catch a glimpse of something metal that's seen better days, I'm there. Bet on it.

It's not easy to propel myself towards the pile of glorious junk, but a couple of lopsided frog-kicks get me close to where I want to be.

As much as I'd love to pick over the stabby-looking things until I'm positive I've got the coolest one, drowning is still a possibility — so I don't wast time imagining myself hoisting each of them in the air from the boat's crows nest, or using them to zip down the rigging, or planting them heroically in the poop deck. Feeling practical and practically out of oxygen, I grab the first weapon in my reach — doesn't matter which. I'm industrious. I'll make the most of it.

There's half a swamp's worth of water up my nose from the fall when I surface, but I'm not about to worry about brain-eating amoebas while there's a hundred other things that want me dead sooner.

The sharks are circling again, and from the look of things I'm the only chum still in the water. I scope the boat out for a better entry point — I'm gonna need a better spot to climb up, considering the harpoon in my right hand is comically large and my left just got bit by a goddamn shark (that I punched in the face!)

There's an anchor dangling off the side, and I may be bad at most things but I'm a pretty okay climber so I know I've got this, even with the ship rocking back and forth. I might lose my lunch (saltwater) once I hit the deck, but I've got this.

There really are a bunch of waves around for an object declaring itself Not a Phase. What? Don't look at me like that, it's completely possible to be from District Three and not know shit about math. It's a pun. It doesn't need to make perfect sense.

Harpoon tucked under my chin, cutlass dangling from my belt, the stakes aren't any higher climbing the boat this time than they were last time. It's just that falling probably means kabobing myself instead of getting devoured by sharks. In addition to getting devoured by sharks. Hey, at least that sounds quicker.

I'm coming up on the edge of the deck, my anchor method feeling promising, when I hear the cawing of a creature more territorial than sharks and bloodthirstier than seagulls: "Ew."

A tween.

Look, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was twelve once — so I get it. I understand the struggle. It's like you just started figuring out how to be a sensible, sentient human with the tools you were given and then suddenly life hands you a box filled with new impulses and new emotions, and then steals your old Encyclopedia of Feelings and Appropriate Emotional Responses when you're too busy rifling through the new stuff. And also your house got leveled and your parents are dead. It's a bad age.

The thing is, as much as I can overlook the snotty tone, and even empathize with the analysis — I'm drenched, barefoot, bleeding, and there is definitely a big clump of seaweed in my hair: if anything, ew is an understatement — I will literally fling myself from the crows nest and crash into the deck like a prize drone someone made the mistake of asking Crime Steven to pilot before I let the last thing I hear be the haughty smack-talk of some average brat who's been alive just long enough to develop a complex about it.

"You don't deserve to be on this ship."

No, seriously. I will literally tie myself to this anchor and cut it loose first. I will literally swan-dive into the open mouth of the nearest tiger shark. I will literally —

"Go sleep with the fishes."

— slacken my arms and hang there for a second while her trident misses me entirely.

I take the moment to hoist myself up, vaulting over the edge of the boat, and stick the landing. Tens across the board, I'm sure, if not for the part where I fumble the gigantic harpoon — but that's a minor detail, and I'm quick on the recovery, too.

"Oh, what, did your school get blown up before they taught you spelling?"

Mine did. Not before spelling. Maybe around discrete structures — I stopped going before that. No truancy laws in wartime, and no one to watch my stuff if I left it alone for the day.

When I was twelve, I was on my own. I'm not gonna tell it like I was some kind of precocious little vigilante badass, because I wasn't. I had a knife, sure, and by virtue of being a twelve-year-old I was absolutely a tiny little sociopath — but I was still just a twelve-year-old. I did what I had to. Didn't we all?

If I don't deserve to be on this ship, it's not 'cause I deserve to be in the water.

"It's fish. Dipshit."

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[crime attacks arianne, comically large whaling harpoon]

jlmH4E97IRspear

[3142 -- Shallow Cut on Right Bicep -- 3.5 damage]

spear

[Deleted]

There's not a soul that helps him, and that's to be expected. Really, it is the Hunger Games, Wyatt can hardly hear the sassy one liners and quotable moments over the cacophony of birds pecking apart his flesh and meat. Somewhere in every kid is the illusion of immunity - invincibility. That the World owes them a final word compared to the thousands he's said over the analogue broadcast. 

Episode 300: The Death of Wyatt Gartens. 

It isn't a fight, not a grand hero moment, but roughly three minutes into the start of it all. Seagulls that eat him like lunch and the way blood thickly mixes with water, his hands slip every time he tries to pick himself up. A fight that never comes, the only promise Panem ever kept was a tombstone. 

And sharks? "They aren't even REAL-" the birds and the sharks and the boats, sickly waves crashing and rocking the only land Wyatt has left. It's all the Capitol's trash, recycled from a war he'd never get to see the end of. 

Instead, the end comes as a boot. The capsize of another tribute, there's no help in death, only the force of hitting the waves again. 

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[ wyatt gets attacked by SHARK ! ]
L0NDfSjkjd1-8
[ 3: 2003 — deep gash on left forearm, 8 damage ]

[ Wyatt becomes Shark Food ]

1-8

[L△LIA]

Man overboard! Even if there was one, no one would throw a life preserver down from the deck of the It's Not A Phase. As Wyatt's wounds color the water, the sharks waste no time circling such an easy feast. In the frenzy the audience catches the briefest glimpses of a hand bobbing lifeless and severed upon a wave before the deafening BOOM! of a cannon fires, clouding the air with thick lilac smoke as the force of the blast jolts the ship sharply off balance. Lurching back and forth in chaotic motion, all but the most seaworthy of tributes are knocked off their feet.

Due to disorientation, the next two attacks of each tribute in this fight will have randomized targets. After these two attacks tributes may go back to selecting their attack targets as normal for the remainder of the Games. (IC: cannons will continue to fire each time a tribute dies, but it will be assumed that tributes begin to adjust to these effects as fights progress.)

- Tributes have the option of including themselves as a possible target for their own attack. This is not required.
- Unarmed attacks are not allowed.
- Tributes for whom attacking isn't in character still have the option of choosing to be attacked by seagulls instead.



1f Arianne Blackburn: roll range 1-4
1: 1m Ramsey Robichaux
2: 2f Talia Ames
3: 2m Poet Dolamite
4: 3f Crime Steven

1m Ramsey Robichaux: roll range 1-4
1: 1f Arianne Blackburn
2: 2f Talia Ames
3: 2m Poet Dolamite
4: 3f Crime Steven

2f Talia Ames: roll range 1-4
1: 1f Arianne Blackburn
2: 1m Ramsey Robichaux
3: 2m Poet Dolamite
4: 3f Crime Steven

2m Poet Dolamite: roll range 1-4
1: 1f Arianne Blackburn
2: 1m Ramsey Robichaux
3: 2f Talia Ames
4: 3f Crime Steven

3f Crime Steven: roll range 1-4
1: 1f Arianne Blackburn
2: 1m Ramsey Robichaux
3: 2f Talia Ames
4: 2m Poet Dolamite

(OPTIONAL) Include Self: roll range 1-5
1: 1f Arianne Blackburn
2: 1m Ramsey Robichaux
3: 2f Talia Ames
4: 2m Poet Dolamite
5: 3f Crime Steven

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

talia ames

Boohoo — the sword slashes into his skin, tearing his flesh apart until his body begs for life with a sorry red plea. As the wound opens, my heart closes; a portion of it separating itself off from my mind as if to stop myself from reading too far into the violence. I shouldn't care, heck, I barely do — but these people are like me, in some ways, and it's difficult to look into someone's eyes and know their life needs to end so yours can go on.

These people are like me, but only in some ways. They've probably shed enough tears before this match began, relying on a hopeless prayer that'll provide nothing but a kick to the stomach when they realise there's no higher power saving them. Yeah, fuck that — I'm more content knowing my fate that anything else and if I end up dead after all this, so be it. I'll be remembered, no doubt about it.

Two of the boys shuffle towards me. His face twists itself into a smirk that separates his jaw from the rest of his head; a gaping wound that invites poison into it, his tongue is an untamed beast in the cave. He enlists the help of the guy from my District. Like I care — there's no way a pretty boy like that is ever making it out alive anyway. He's destined for the grave: no grit, no courage. He's a pushover. Unfortunate. For him.

"Let's take a little off the top, Darlin!" His axe throws itself into my neck. Yeah, yeah, whatever. Doesn't hurt — I think, teeth clamped together, eyes stinging with the fear of showing a teardrop.

"If anyone could use a haircut, man, that's you. Absolutely criminal, that hair."

“I believe the traditional opening is: en garde!”

"Not your darlin', mop." The pretty one cuts against me too. Some sort of alliance because, yeah, absolutely, I'd be threatened by a girl like me too. "Must be trying to compensate for something," I look at the curly-haired boy and roll my eyes.

I guess they don't see me as deserving of a crown, which is whatever. But just because Adder won, doesn't mean I should die. Why should I give in because they want me to, because they see a surname and think that's enough for one family? As if, winning the Hunger Games provides some sort of safety blanket that is capable of withstanding any storm? They don't know anything about me, nor Adder — they don't know fucking anything about us, man, and if they had even just one day being an Ames, they'd end up dead.

This target on my back is not the armour they think it is.

The boat begins to sway as we stagger around, the deck blood-stained and dripping crimson into the ship's underbelly. Waves start to swirl with increasing power and one look out to sea and there's a hand floating on top of the water. Dead. Dead and gone — and I think my pulse must be playing tricks on me because there's a boom that leaves a ringing in my ear. Except, it isn't my body betraying me; smoke plumes from the sky and the strength of the ruckus in the water is enough to make me fall to my knees.

It isn't enough to keep me down, though. I'll never kiss the ring.

[ d2f talia ames attacks someone ; cutlass ]

qfVXlZAbz91-4

1: 1f Arianne Blackburn
2: 1m Ramsey Robichaux
3: 2m Poet Dolamite
4: 3f Crime Steven

sword

[ 1081 -- Severed Right Forearm at Elbow -- 9.5 damage ]

1-4·sword

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

He stood dumbfounded and confused by the girl. Number one, how was she talking when he'd pretty much just crushed her windpipe with the sharp side of an axe? And number two, who the fuck was she talking to about having bad hair?

"Business in the front, party in the back. Bitch."

By way of reply, she took the arm of the little girl from his district. He guessed there was supposed to be some kind of comradery between them- some sort of if I can't, at least someone from home should. But uh, he didn't feel that. He felt next to nothing, if anything somewhat annoyed by the screams.

He turned his attention to his original target: the boy nearest to the edge, still struggling to overcome the birds. He looked like he didn't have so much time left, only standing because it's the last thing he'd been doing before the end began. It was easy enough for Ramsey to plant his boot square in the boy's chest and send him flailing over the edge.

Manic, he peered over the edge and watched as the sharks began to rip at him, the water stained red for only an instant before fading back to normal.

"Shark bait!" he screamed, laughing.

"Shark bait, shark bait!" The tone was one of mockery, cut short by the deafening blast of the ship's cannon. It rocked, slid him from one edge to the other and the waves slapped against the hull so much that it was impossible to regain his balance. He screamed out like a wolf on the hunt, raising his axe into the air as he slid. The person nearest to him was the brat from his district, standing there all sad and missing an arm. Boohoo.

Made her an easy target, at the very least.

He thought it'd be kind of hilarious if he were to knock her off her feet, because it would've been especially hard for her to get back up, so that's what he took a swing at first.

^{[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]}

[ramsey attacks someone, axe]
kcNkVAgZxF1-4
[arianne]

axe
[11089 -- Shallow Cut on Left Thigh -- 3.5 damage]

1-4·axe