The Abyssal [ Bloodbath: Lower District Tributes ]

[lance]

Flash.

It's disorienting, being divebombed by a shit ton of carnivorous birds moments after nearly drowning while standing on land that pitches and heaves beneath him with every passing second. Who would have thought, huh?

But apparently waving around something sharp and shiny is enough to get the birds to retreat without leaving more than a scratch on one arm, and he gazes triumphantly into the heavens. "Yeah, that's what I fucking thought, you overgrown sacks of bird shit!" he yells up, swinging the axe once more for good measure. "That'll teach you not to fuck with me!"

No matter that his weapon is still shining in the glistening sun, untouched by so much as a feather, let alone the blood of his enemies. Half of winning the war is faking it till you make it, right?

Though that doesn't explain how the skinny little fuck from last year claimed his victory.

He twirls the axe as best as he can having never carried something like that before - honestly, he'd much prefer the long reach of a scythe or something small like a knife, stuff he's actually held in his hands before instead of District Seven's sole claim to fame, but beggars can't really be choosers - ready to go for round two with the birds, when something catches his eye.

A boy, too far away to make out exactly where he's from, is being lifted into the air by no less than fifty of the same greedy fucks that had just tried to take a bite out of him. As he watches, eyes wide and jaw agape, the birds begin to tear into him with reckless abandon, and the echo of an explosion reaches his ears.

He looks back up at the remaining birds circling overhead, thankful for the first time that he's already soaked to the bone. Because, well, that leaves the fact of whether or not he just wet himself up to the imagination.

"Right," he murmurs, unable to keep the shake out of his voice. On second thought-

He's saved from having to voice that second thought by the glinting of steel - and in his distraction, his hubris, he'd failed to realize that the rest of the boat had exploded into chaos around him. Ten's boy swung and missed at his district partner, who'd swung at Twelve's boy a second prior - and as the boat pitches yet again, not one but two blades end up swinging his way instead.

Huh. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

Twin slices mar his body, his left side taking the brunt of the action, as he steps back, glaring from girl to boy and back again. His mind races a mile a minute, his first foray into strategy proving a true trial by fire - or would that be water? - as he weighs the pros and cons of striking back at each.

Yet indecision had left him being divebombed once already, and after seeing the display from the other boat, coupled with the all-too fresh memories of last year, he was far from eager to experience that a second time.

"Fuck me up?" he drawls towards the Twelve boy, stepping forward to close the distance. "Right. I just got divebombed by those greedy fucks up there-" he jabs his axe-hand towards the sky to accentuate his point, "-and they left more of a mark on me than you did."

He breathes, trying to calm the nerves building up in his chest, stomach, head - fuck it, entire body - and takes another step. "Fuck me up?" he repeats, louder. "Don't make me fuckin' laugh."

But there's no mirth in Basil's eyes as he swings his weapon - not towards the bird devils, but towards another kid - with the intent to kill.

Only rage. Disgust.

Fear.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

basil attaxe bobby the dragged queen; axe

Kg|qF7TnCKaxe

11128 -- Shallow Cut on Right Shoulder -- 3.5 damage

axe

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

Oh, I can feel the heat of greedy eyes. Their voices a low hum, rising and falling in tandem with the tide. Guess I was so busy breaking my hand against Cobb's face that I forgot we were meant to be making a spectacle of ourselves. "Ow, why's your face so hard?!" But I don't sound very intimidating, gaze drawn towards the stands involuntarily as the strain shatters my voice.

I think I'm just a bit homesick because I'm thinking about the way they can all see me right now and feeling my chest turn itself into knots. It's always been more than me and Uncle Auggie back home. My neighbors knew me when I was barely up to their knees, Eloise was there for my first words and her spouse was the one to teach me how to cook cabbage soup.

(Lucky they also knew first aid to patch me up when I burned my hands.)

This is the last time they'll ever see me, shaking out my hand and sneering in an attempt to convince everyone else I'm stronger than them. We all know it ain't true, but I've never been able to stop myself from lying. They just kept falling out my mouth like rotten teeth.

The ship trembles beneath us and I almost miss the sight of my sword skittering across the deck. The bloods getting thicker, all of it oozing out of the boy from eleven. The birds are vicious, eyes like little beads. Boring into their prey but seeing nothing at all. It's almost captivating in the worst way.

The two tens squeeze linked fingers, drinking in what's left of home before they raise their weapons. They attack, innocence falling like ribbons, fluttering away on a manufactured breeze.

Oh, we're fighting. We're really trying to kill each other.

I don't think I wanted to realize I was actually alone.

It's like my mind caves in on itself. A searing panic takes over and all I can see is white. "This isn't Noah's ark." Winger says to me, her blade coming in quicker than I can move to defend against it. I try to grab the blade, to keep it from making contact but the next thing I know is I've stumbled back against the edge of the ship and see more than feel the fresh wound. Red bubbles eagerly out of the split skin and I very much want to be sick again.

"No shit! You just stabbed me!" It's half anger, half shock.

I was defenseless, back turned and without a weapon.

And that made me a fucking target.

I lunge for my blade, putting it between me and whatever warm body is closest.

My gaze flickers between my companions, tongue tripping over itself as I chew on desperation. I can't win on skill alone, I've got to be smart. "Look, if we have to kill someone we should go for the weakest link." I look at Cobb, almost pleading because he could have stabbed me too but he didn't.

I square my shoulders, trying to look bigger to look stronger to look older. To look like I know what I'm talking about. "The birds have already got him. It's a mercy at this point!"

And I don't believe a single word, but what's important is that they might.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[monty (12f) stabs basil (11m) -- sword]
pWxI8y3zjasword
[0.0]

sword

[bailee]

The scrawny district ten boy takes a swing at her, and she just barely dodges it. The air from the cutlass was one of the most terrifying sensation - it was almost like death was narrowly avoiding her. Winger quickly backs off from the rest of the crowd and gazes amongst them. The Bloodbath seemed to drag on forever - none of them seemed too injured, nor too tired to give up.

This was not the situation she wanted to be in.

Screams and cannons firing in the distance from other ships could be heard, yet her ship's battle remained ruthless as each tribute turns against each other with the unfortunate livelihood of each of them. The seagulls seem to disperse as her district partner begins to join the fight, particularly amongst the loud-mouthed district twelves.

Oh well. They could play their silly game all they wanted. Someone needs to die, and Winger is going to be the one to do it.

Her grip tightens on her cutlass as she lines up to slash the district ten boy who targeted her first. Always pick on someone your own size, right?

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

Winger attacks Lachlan (D10M), cutlass (sword)
sGKf6EPJGdsword
1010 -- Severed Left Calf at Knee -- 9.0 damage
(Sword)
sword

[Arrows]

Ring around the rosie,

When the sky screamed and the earth erupted around your house, the silence was deafening. Everything off balance, everything off kilter. The fresh fronds of weeds writhing through the cracked cobblestone seared and singed. You laid there silhouetted in smoke, the stains covered by those trampled under giants' feet. And as the sound of the heavens crying against falling metal tear drops returned, your Pixie wings burnt away into adjacent embers. Never could you cry out for help as the ash engulfed you. No one cares for a wounded child in war.

Pocket full of posies,

You're staring stunned half strung to Terra like a tether as you see your sword lodge deep into the bark of the boards. Slipping mid-strike, the sword dove for the ground and you along with it. Feeling a flush of red washing over your cheeks, you scramble to secure the sword back from the deck. Are they laughing at you? Those people all around you. Or are they distracted by the booming canons and the rising columns of smoke spiraling through the air? Maybe that's why you do it; turn your back away from the girl. It's just a second as the sword slips free from the boards when... the silence suffocates you.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

The world slants. You're falling, but your eyes don't see the shifting faces alighting into an expression of exhilaration. Your ears don't hear the cacophonous cry of delight that ripples like a roar from their lips. Instead, there is only the sound of a glued together porcelain doll shattering against the deck of a ship. Your eyes trace the red blood that leaks into your long locks. You follow it straight to where rationality ends and panic presides: a lifeless limb. Terra's tether has gone as your hands have fallen; they latch to your ears like muffs. Then, in a sound more similar to animal than boy, a gargled snare of a broken scream splits into silent sobs. Your body curling into itself like a small child.

You're so cold, drenched in the frost of fright. Around you are the ones who fight, the Giants. A girl from home with a heart of passion and a sword of hope. A girl who smiles at sorrow and spills blood as though she doesn't share your youth. A boy buried in a flock of feathers, but with a voice the sound of crackling lightning. Another girl with fists for fire and a mouth to match. And another boy with a stature of strength that towers terribly over you. They are the giants. You've learned already what happens when ants play with Giants. Everything gets destroyed. Your eyes clench tight as the tears spill over their edges.

From between your furrowed fingers, the sound of a creaking board brings your eyes flying open. Stained by tears and fogged by fright, you instinctively scramble for your sword a high pitched whistle breaking in and out of context.

Hurt! Hurt! Hurt!

Grabbing the weapon, you don't even look before striking out at the nearby image. You hear steel meet steel and out of the fog, the voice of lightning along with its face kind of emerges from between the salt of your tears. From the world of Giants, towering so highly above you, he speaks. You expect thunder, but instead the clouds lighten.

"Easy kid, I'm not your enemy today. Get to your district partner, she'll keep you safe."

Blinking up at the boy you shakily nod. Then, weakly slipping in blood and snot, you crawl along the deck of the ship towards the only swath of blonde hair you can see. A small sound still squeaking from between your pursed lips.

Afraid. 

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

lachlan renwick attacks basil baptiste ; cutlass {sword}
ZY60EZ1NWIsword
{Block -- 0.0 damage}

sword

[✨ zozo.]

There's the deafening sound of canon-fire and it plays tricks on her mind.

It's been five years since they dropped bombs on the little terror of Montague, but it had started to feel like forever since she was just Terra. That girl was so different from who she is now, standing on this ship - yet in this moment, clutching Lachlan's hand and panicking, that memory seems like the closest thing to familiar she's ever felt.

Her eyes go to the bluest skies she's ever seen, not a aircraft in sight. Just plumes of white cloud and swarms of birds and Terra squints at the sight of the sun, feeling the light take her vision prisoner. Sweat pools at the base of her neck, sticky and fierce like a muggy summer in Ten - it's a familiar feeling, fighting children through the weight of exhaustion.

As she cranes her neck around, another canon fires. No aircrafts, no bombs, just tricks of light and plumes of smoke from aboard the other ships. Fire, she thinks at the smell, expecting the taste of ash at the back of her throat. One final glance at the sky tells her there's no bombs falling from above - but there might be some on this ship.

Brown eyes cast downward and it all happens in one swift movement. Lachlan pulls away from her grip. Someone's sword flies past her head. Then a great thud as her friend falls into a puddle of his own blood, half of his leg rolling across the watery deck behind him.

Terra gasps, catching a scream in her throat. The crowd cries out for her, a mix of ecstasy and horror falling in waves toward the water.

She's seen wounds worse than this. A hundred bones breaking, a thousand drops of blood. Children crushed under buildings and vehicles, adults blown to bits in the aftershocks, and that was all before she was chosen to train with the Circle. They had taught the Stroms girls to pluck eyeballs out from their sockets so the Montagues taught her to keep her head down, to duck away faster than their hands could catch her. Fighting for herself was easy. When it was Terra's eye or their broken fingers, the choice was easy. No remorse. No shame. No guilt.

But this wasn't easy. Lachlan wasn't another kid brave enough to fight for the sake of fighting. He was her friend, her first in forever - and he'd be her last, and she'd betrayed him.

Hurt, hurt, hurt, she remembers the Montagues teaching her how to whistle through the fields to signal injuries. A short blast for each number on a pain scale of one to ten, the whistles between Lachlan's lips don't seem to stop.

With wide eyes and shaking limbs, Terra looks at the girl with Lachlan's blood on her sword and snarls.

"You'll pay for that!"

Afraid, Lachlan whistles.

She doesn't have time to whistle back the same. She can only launch forward and think of one single word. As if thinking it will manifest it. As if it will become corporeal, channeled through her sword. As if the girl will simply combust under the weight of it.

Pain, the echoes of Lachlan's whistles ring in Terra's ears as she brings her weapon down hard and fast.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

terra d10f attacks winger d11f
ea|oYOhJ1Asword
stabbed in eye 40 damage

sword

[L△LIA]

As Terra's cutlass is pulled free from the skull of the girl from Eleven, Winger collapses upon the deck of the The Abyssal. After a prolonged moment of stillness the deafening BOOM! of a cannon fires, clouding the air with thick white 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.



10f Terra Montague: roll range 1-4
1: 10m Lachlan Renwick
2: 11m Basil Baptiste
3: 12f Monty Quinn
4: 12m Bobby Cobb

10m Lachlan Renwick: roll range 1-4
1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 11m Basil Baptiste
3: 12f Monty Quinn
4: 12m Bobby Cobb

11m Basil Baptiste: roll range 1-4
1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 12f Monty Quinn
4: 12m Bobby Cobb

12f Monty Quinn: roll range 1-4
1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 11m Basil Baptiste
4: 12m Bobby Cobb

12m Bobby Cobb: roll range 1-4
1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 11m Basil Baptiste
4: 12f Monty Quinn

(OPTIONAL) Include Self: roll range 1-5
1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 11m Basil Baptiste
4: 12f Monty Quinn
5: 12m Bobby Cobb

[arx!!]

I know she's right. It's as simple as one stinging cut bubbling up red across the length of my shoulder, two hands once bolted with a pin strong enough to hold up a mountain suddenly snapping, and three.

I'm not a stranger to death up close, I've seen it twice before.  The first was slow, but expected—swallow enough  coal dust in your life and your lungs'll turn to coal themselves.  I took him his meals with shaking hands, afraid he'd wake while I was still in the room and he'd shout at me with his deep, craggly voice in a language I didn't understand.

Years and years of trying to cough up the poison they'd so readily wanted you to choke down to fuel their wars and their homes must be exhausting because I'd found him slumped over his work bench with a revolver tangled between fingers slowly turning to stone.

The second was an accident.  Always is in the mines.  Couldn't possibly be because after asking repeatedly for months for replacement parts and pointing out design flaws in our machinery that the thing we said would happen finally happened.  The investigation found him at fault, said he'd been misusing the equipment.  A widow had to pay to replace the machine that tore her husband to pieces.

Which brings me to number three.

"Sh-shit."

I have to use both hands to keep hold of my blade.  It suddenly feels heavy, like

"Robert Randall Cobb, no! I will not let you kill yourself in those mines! You hear me?!  Are you listening to me?! Bobby, please, baby, don't-!"

An explosion rings out and the earth shifts beneath my feet. I brace for the weight of the world to fall upon my shoulders, wait for the roof to cave and everything to go dark, but when I blink everything is white, gray, still so fucking bright even as the sun disappeared behind rising smoke and debris.

I stumble across the deck of the ship with my heart in my throat ready to splatter upon blood soaked, salt-kissed floorboards.  I don't wanna fucking die.  I've never wanted to fucking die, no matter how many times Mom's insisted that's the case.

I keep my blade high, muscles tense and taut as I stumble and slip toward the part of the ship I think'll have a wheel or rudder or some super specific rope to pull to make this damn thing drive itself into the the fucking walls.  Er, sail. Sail into the- fuck it, whatever, why is this what's on my mind right fucking now?

Because she sure made that look easy, huh?

Damn it. Focus, just focus.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 11m Basil Baptiste
4: 12f Monty Quinn
BCftlJ164|1-4

12M Bobby Cobb attacks [3: 11m Basil Baptiste]
sword
[Shallow Cut on Right Thigh -- 3.5 damage]

1-4·sword

[lance]

It's telling, how easy it is to get in the rhythm of attack, defend, dodge. Basil'd never been a fighter in his life, and the only tool even resembling a weapon were the scythes and knives he'd used to cut through grain or pluck away orchard fruit. But he's tall, and strong, and healthy, and with birds no longer picking at his flesh and salt water fully expelled from his lungs, it's difficult but not impossible to stay in the heat of the fight.

And it's all too clear just how unsuited these kids are for the hardships of war. The Twelve girl takes after her district partner and swings for him, and it's a simple matter to dodge. Ten and Twelve alike have sent both of their warriors after him, and yet he stands tall, only a handful of cuts marring his body proof that he'd even been involved.

This was winnable, as long as he played it smart.

Then the girl from home cuts off the Ten boy's leg, and any semblance of striking back at his captors tumbles overboard. Images flash, of white-clad Peacekeepers and a pale-skinned woman with crocodile tears and a murderous glint in her eyes, and then suddenly her face is replaced with the girl's.

And his mama had always told him to beware the white girls back home, particularly the rich ones, for there was no telling the dangers that they possessed.

His jaw sets, and he makes his decision. His uncle had been executed because he'd ignored the danger. Basil wouldn't make the same mistake.

He steps towards the girl, but a flash of silver catches his attention. Instinct and reflex act accordingly, and the steel of his axe ricochets against the steel of the Ten boy's sword. He's sprawled on the ground, blood pumping from his severed limb, a mask of tight fear pulled tightly across his paling face.

Something within Basil's chest shifts. He is just a kid, isn't he?

"Easy kid, I'm not your enemy today," he says, gently pushing the boy's sword away with his axe. "Get to your district partner, she'll keep you safe."

Nevermind that he was still a rival, still someone that would have to die before he won and left this arena alive - Basil had standards, okay? And attacking a frightened, newly crippled kid who had acted not out of malice but pure terror was far too low for him to stoop to.

So he steps over the boy, brandishing his axe to swing at the girl from home-

-and then said aforementioned district partner from Ten gets there first, and her sword doesn't just strike, it pierces.

Basil stops, jaw dropping, as his district partner's head explodes in a shower of red, before sliding off of Ten's sword and collapsing to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. And for a moment, he can only gape - at the corpse, at the girl, at the corpse again - because what the actual fuck.

Okay, scratch that. Maybe the Tens were something to be feared after all.

Then, as if on cue, a loud blast reverberates from beneath his feet, and suddenly his feet are no longer beneath him and he's flat on his ass, which is now smarting because ouch wood isn't comfortable, and-

-oh yeah he's still surrounded by hostile teens who want him dead, better get his ass into gear-

-and as he stumbles to his feet, head spinning, something biting into his leg, and instinct once again causes him to swing back blindly, nevermind that the grip on his weapon is loose and threatens to slip past his grasp and-

Yeah, who would have thought that having the consequences of his actions coming back to bite him in the ass would be so disorienting?

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

basil attaxe someone; axe

1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 11m Basil Baptiste
4: 12f Monty Quinn
5: 12m Bobby Cobb

r3KTgYMyyU1-5

Monty!

axe

11141 -- Shallow Cut on Left Thigh -- 3.5 damage

1-5·axe

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

It's a wonder that I can still call myself sheltered. We're all in the gutters in twelve, street rats at best. We're worse than dirt by default, but maybe I had it better than some. I had people who gave a shit whether or not I saw the Peacekeepers pulling ol' Mel outta his attic because he'd starved to death in there. They treated my innocence like it was something worth keeping.

And maybe I didn't have to collect all those favors like I collected scars on bloody knees. Maybe they would have cared about me anyway, without all the fake smiles. I'm realizing a lot of things a little too late, I think.

I wretch into my hand when Winger cuts off Lachlan's leg, unable to look away from the globules of blood now swaying with the motion of the ship. I didn't think people bled like that, I didn't know there was so much you could lose before you keel over. I'm starting to wonder if a Peackeeper's bullet would have made for a more merciful end.

Shoulda turned tail and ran the minute they said my name cause I think I'm dead either way.

BANG!

It takes me a second to realize what's happened. I focus on the ringing in my ears, not the cannon-fire and certainly not the way Terra's blade just ran the girl in front of me through. The ocean roars to life, demanding revenge for the life we'd just had a hand in taking.

Her limp body rolls to the side, unable to resist the force of the arena. I wish I was still deaf so as to not remember the sound of skin slapping against blood soaked planks.

I close my eyes hoping to escape and find the scent of ocean air and iron all the more intense. I can hear labored breaths and pained whimpers, the wound on my arm throbs in tandem with my heart's racing.

I'm trapped here, for as long as forever is going to last.

I take a deep breath and I try to be strong. I'm worse at that than I thought.

"I just want to go home."

The ship lurches again, laughing at me.

And I fall with the others.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 11m Basil Baptiste
4: 12m Bobby Cobb
mivuYXdaMS1-4

[monty (12f) stabs someone? (Lachlan)]
sword
[Shallow Cut on Right Bicep -- 3.5 damage]

1-4·sword

[Arrows]

It's always the same, the way life changes. It doesn't give a warning or an announcement, instead it comes in an instant. The ground gives way or the sky explodes. A bullet barrels through the air or a sword swings through a leg. You've been the victim of its folly for your whole life. Today is no exception as you lay watching red rivers run towards the false sea sewn into existence by the severing of your leg. Your eyes still sting from the salt of your tears.

As you whistle weakly, crawling across the splintering planks, Terra's voice growls in a tone you recognize. Your eyes meet her's and that's when you see it, the same sight you've seen so many times. The flash of flames within the arc of the iris that comes before the cry of canon. It was the color of the soldiers and the color of the Capitol. It is the look of war, but even more so: it's the look of one ready to kill.

Her blonde hair flashes through the streaming sunlight just before scarlet stains the sky. Your eyes follow the steel of her sword to where it now rests within the conclave of the girl from Eleven's skull. The girl who stole your leg with a single strike now slumps to the ship with something far more valuable stolen. You don't look to her though, you look to the one standing in her place. You look to Terra, to the sword that swung with the name Lachlan in its mind.

You start to form a circle with your mouth only for the sound to be shattered by something far louder than your lips. The ship surges into smoke as a canon christens the air below deck. Instinctively, your lunges begin trying to expel the heavy cloud as your body is thrown sliding across the uneven boards. Slamming into the side of the ship, you gasp in shock as another spout of coughing courses through your chest.

Within the crafted cloud, you are entirely disoriented. All you can feel is the wooden rail against your back as your hands use it to try and stand. Your legs, oh... your leg shakes trying to adjust to the new weight while your hands grip tightly to the ship's edge. Still sputtering, you can hear the waves below breaking against the shell of the ship. That's when a glint of steel slices through the smoke. It leaves a small linear line on your skin as just the small strike sends you nearly back down to the deck.

Shaking harder than before, you use the railing's aid to turn around and face the billowing plume of uncertainty. It matches the way your mind fears every inch of this experience. However, Terra has just made the ultimate sacrifice for you. Thrown away the tethers of her innocence to play by the true rules of these Games. You know you've still been trying to run from them, but now by fate that's been made physically impossible for you. You have to play, you always have to play. Your hand grips the handle of your sword tightly. At least with the smoke, you don't have to see what you do.

Swing Lachie, you tell yourself, fight.

So you do. You swing at the first sign of shifting smoke. Let it be the veil that covers the lost child and welcomes the found fighter. 

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

Target Random Roll:
1. 10f Terra Montague
2. 11m Basil Baptiste
3. 12f Monty Quin
4. 12m Bobby Cobb

Ol|lJ2oTgg1-4
{Basil Baptiste}

lachlan renwick attacks Random ; cutlass {sword}
sword
{Deep Gash on Left Thigh -- 8.0 damage}

1-4·sword

[✨ zozo.]

It's just muscle memory. In and out, right as the bodies begin to slump else they'll drag you down with them. There's speckles of this girl's blood on her face but Terra doesn't flinch as the body hits the deck with a sickening thud, let alone raise a hand to wipe the debris from her cheeks.

She pulls her gaze away from the blood pooling out of the girl's eye and looks hard and steady to the horizon, right into the eyes of the crowd. Terra says nothing. The blood dripping from her blade to meet the deck below and Winger O'Malley's corpse at her feet speak for her.

There's a silence, then a great roar - but Terra doesn't hear it. Instead of applause the world explodes, a bomb to her left that hurls her off of her feet and sends her body flying through the air.

When she hits the ground the wind is knocked from her lungs, her weapon clattering around her as it's wretched from her grip. Hands fly up to protect her head, it's just muscle memory - but it's not enough, it's too late. Her ears scream with ringing and she chokes on smoke, desperately trying to breathe again as her past meets her present.

Terra's always been lucky. Seventeen years and she'd evaded being a casualty of war for so long it was bound to catch up to her eventually. Regaining her composure, scrambling back up onto fours, onto twos, weapon back in her hand, it's just muscle memory. Knock a soldier down enough times and they'll learn it takes more than a bomb to keep them down. Eventually they'll learn you have to get back up every single time.

LACHLAN? she tries, feeling the sound tingling in her throat but never meeting her ears. All Terra can hear is ringing, the endless sound of an explosion rooted inside of her skull.

LACHLAN? a cry, whipping her blade around through the dark. WHERE ARE YOU?

No sound but the ringing. No sight but the plumes of smoke surrounding her. It dawns on Terra that if she can't hear her own words, she can't hear his whistles.

STAY BACK! she screams, to Lachlan - to the others. Terra's learned to fight with a hand tied behind her back, a hand broken, blinded by the dark, but she'd always had her hearing. Always. Now she has nothing but fear in her throat and a small prayer on her lips that begs Lachlan to stay as far away from her as possible as they dance in the dark.

She takes a deep breath and tastes ash in her cheeks. War. Death. It's just muscle memory to a girl like Terra of Montague.

So she lunges; no sound, no mercy.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

terra d10f attacks:

1: 10m Lachlan Renwick
2: 11m Basil Baptiste
3: 12f Monty Quinn
4: 12m Bobby Cobb

RO9LGpUG9w1-4
basil 11m

with cutlass:

sword
Severed Left Calf at Knee -- 9.0 damage

1-4·sword

[L△LIA]

Updated dice tables:

10f Terra Montague: roll range 1-3
1: 10m Lachlan Renwick
2: 12f Monty Quinn
3: 12m Bobby Cobb

10m Lachlan Renwick: roll range 1-3
1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 12f Monty Quinn
3: 12m Bobby Cobb

12f Monty Quinn: roll range 1-3
1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 12m Bobby Cobb

12m Bobby Cobb: roll range 1-3
1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 12f Monty Quinn

(OPTIONAL) Include Self: roll range 1-4
1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 12f Monty Quinn
4: 12m Bobby Cobb

[arx!!]

I latch onto her words, the pleas for home on her lips the melody of the song playing on my heart's strings.  I pull her close, fist balled up around the collar of her shirt as her blade drips blood diluted by fake ass sea spray.

"Come on then," I growl, the desperation behind my words making me pull her closer, fingers refusing to unfurl as I breathe heavy, eyes darting between the freckles on her cheeks to keep myself from looking her in the eyes.

"Let's sail this motherfucker all the way home," I pause, I blink.

It's a plea I've disguised to sound threatening.  I've never begged for anything in my life; I can feel the veins in my neck and temple filling to burst.

"Right through all these fucking bastards."

I curse when another explosion threatens to bring the world down around me.  I fall against the side of the ship, hands over my head to protect my thoughts and eyes shielded to keep the dust from blinding me.  I expect to be dead, but instead I've just got wobbly knees and the beginning of a fucking heart attack coming on as I scrabble along the slippery floorboards.

Screaming breaks out around me as the ringing in my ears subsides. I suck air through my teeth, beat at the bite marks in my hip until pain, pain, pain is all I can think about, all I can commit to memory.

Which was my plan all along.  Anything to keep from learning the names of the people trapped on this fucking boat with me.  I don't have enough heart left to share with any of them.

I know I should keep quiet, but—"Fucking damn it all to hell, where's the fucking steering on this thing?!"—I'm sick of feeling so damn small.

So I swing big.

"Fucking seriously, Quinn?!" Damn it. "You're supposed to be helping me, not getting in the way!"

My bark don't have much bite to it when I'm offering her a hand though.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 12f Monty Quinn
zUfa9uV5mX1-3

12M Bobby Cobb attacks [3: 12f Monty Quinn]
sword
[Shallow Cut on Right Hip -- 3.5 damage]

1-3·sword

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

I've always been told I'm a little too brash. Not quite headstrong, but with a tongue that leaps ahead of me at any given moment. I'm quick on my feet and I'm damn smart. But maybe I should stop thinking so highly of myself. Because here, in the ocean, I've never felt smaller. The sky looks heavier than it should like it'll all fall down and suffocate me if I'm not careful.

I thought I had Cobb pinned, I thought I knew the kind of guy he was. Now that he's the only thing I have left of home, though, I cling to the familiarity. I know we are little more than strangers but he's at least better than the kids with a literal sword poised inches from my neck.

I wonder if they know where to cut to make it quick and painless. I wonder if they have the decency.

"Let's sail this motherfucker all the way home," It's weird those words make me feel like I can breathe again.

"I like the way you think!" I beam at him, suddenly a whole lot better at pretending to be brave. He might be a foul-mouthed mine rat, but he beats facing this alone.

And then a scream shatters through the ocean's roar and I watch another body hit the deck. I think I see the moment the life drains from his eyes, glassy gaze going unfocused. His mouth hangs open, lolling on broken hinges. "Fuck." I stumble back, struggling to stay standing as the strength drains from my legs.

"You're-" I stare at the girl with blood soaking her blade and find my voice dies in my throat. -a monster. It'd be easier if that was true if she looked a little less frantic and a lot more mean.

I need to start paying attention, to stop getting lost in my head because Cobb's swing goes wide and I don't jump out of the way in time. "Ouch!" I hiss, breathless as my back hits the deck. It's harder than it should be to stand back up.

"You're supposed to be helping me, not getting in the way!" But when he holds out his hand I take it without hesitation.

A part of me wonders if it was really an accident but I don't linger on that thought.

"You've got eyes, Cobb! Use them." I poke between them for emphasis, rolling my shoulders to ease the way they ache. "We should kill her before she kills us."

The words are cruel but taste surprisingly sweet.

The ship gives a particularly violent lurch as I lunge for the girl from ten, horror splaying across my features as my blade connects with Cobb instead. "No!" I cover my mouth, watching as his shirt soaks red. "I didn't mean I-"

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

1: 10f Terra Montague
2: 10m Lachlan Renwick
3: 12m Bobby Cobb
_|ni1yAJxS1-3

[monty (12f) stabs someone? (Bobby) ]
sword
[ Deep Gash on Stomach -- 9.0 damage]

1-3·sword

[Arrows]

The scent of signed smoke smears your nose in a veil of fearful familiarity. Here in this cloud of confusion, you have been reduced to what you were that day: the wrong end of a falling bomb. The twig that snaps from the furling flames and watches the terror of smoke tower towards the sky as its leaves incinerate into ash. You used to flower, blossom, and bloom. Now you wander lost on wrecking ships wondering whether life can ever truly flower twice. Surely she is proof of that though.

Before the billowing siege of obscurity began, you watched her hair of brilliant blonde sail in the breath of the wind. She was not a shivering girl secured to an anchor, but one that moved freely. Her sword may have been soaked in the stains of her innocence, yet she wielded it with no more malice than a rose's thorns. The way she moved, acted, and fought was like a dance. You used to love to dance, to laugh, to live. Isn't that worth remembering too?

Your thoughts, all melded together as you stare at the blood now seeping down your sword, are silenced by shouts of the Twelves. They are fighting? No, they are lost in the this madness as well. And somewhere in this parade of pandemonium is Terra. If only you could whistle above the breaking canon below you. Wait, another one? The ship surges and your single-legged balance breaks as you fall face first back to the boards.

Stunned for a second, your body shudders as you search for the railing in the easing smoke screen. Your fingers find something warm, something sticky. Lurching back in horror, you stare at your blood stained hands and the body of the boy from Eleven laying before you. All his kindness, his sympathy turns your eyes towards the blood on your sword. Is it his? You scramble, crawling away across the deck as quickly as possible while panic purses your lunges into rapid rates.

Bumping into some kind of wall or rail, you shakily stand and try not to hurl whatever food is left in your stomach down into the sea below. Instead, you try to whistle as loudly as you can, calling, pleading for her ears to hear your calls. The whistle which whips across the wind echoes identically the one she once shared with you.

T-E-R-R-A-?

Your hands release the railing as you hop several steps forward. You laid helpless as a bomb killed your Pa and Brother. You laid weeping and snot riddled as the Eleven spared your life. Even if fear is the root from which your flower will bloom then you will welcome it. Cause maybe this time you can make a difference. Maybe this time you can help her like she's helped you. You swing into the smoke whistling once more.

T-E-R-R-A-?

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

Target Random Roll:
1. 10f Terra Montague
2. 12f Monty Quin
3. 12m Bobby Cobb

ZlJItPnYQa1-3
{Bobby Cobb}

lachlan renwick attacks Random ; cutlass {sword}
sword
{Deep Gash on Cheek -- 8.5 damage}

1-3·sword