The Abyssal [ Bloodbath: Lower District Tributes ]

[L△LIA]

10F v. 10M v. 11F v. 11M v. 12F v. 12M

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 west is a ship with simple sails of white billowing in the wind. Make no mistake, this is the color of surrender and it doesn't feel accidental. Death does not parley. One by one the nearby tributes of the Lower 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 The Abyssal painted below. Throughout history raising a Jolly Roger has signaled battle and today is no different, the coal-eyed skull grinning before a cross of wheat, intimidatingly bright upon its oil black flag.

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)

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

I yank at the shitty leather band until the buckle—"Fuck this stupid shit stick, bitch ass excuse for a fucking belt- graAAHH!"—digs uncomfortably into my hip. The smell of moth skeletons and musty closet is overwhelming around me. It sends my thoughts toward home as I rip the hat off my head and wiggle my way out of the sash that feels more like a straight jacket. I tear the vest in two and whip it into the ground.

I don't feel any better though.

How many of these buttons are camera lenses winking at me? How many stitches hold hidden microphones? What sort of devices are they using to control me?

My family'd be so proud if they saw me now, rage masking the fear and paranoid fingers scratching and tearing at fraying seams. Mostly I wish my mom were here to sing until the anger passed and my body finally gave into peace.

The gates screech and I flinch, huffing and growling as I make my way toward them with my hands balled into fists and aimed for whoever showed up first on the other side.

I'm not sure what I was expecting, but, uh-

"Oh, what. the. fuck."

This sure as shit wasn't it.

I hold out a hand to shield my eyes from the sun, squinting hard as they adjust to a bowl of frothing foam and—"Oh, what the actual fucking fuck."

Wait, wait- I learned this shit at school, I think. Uh, something about fins and angles and how most of the time you don't gotta panic cause it's just a friendly whale? Or some shit, I don't fucking know, I dig rocks for a living I'm more of a glorified mole than a science-y fish person, alright?

And then the creaking of wood and ropes, followed by a loud crash, a spray of water, waves sloshing over my ankles, the sound of fabric shifting and pulling taut in the wind. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the blinding white stands and glittering faux ocean, but when they do-

"Whoa," I breathe, staring in awe as a ship passes nearby, pointing it's way back onto the circular path it'd drifted from toward its companions. I can't help it; I stand and stare.

"Damn. Al-fucking-right, then."

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[bailee]

If you don't have faith, you have nothing at all.

God doesn't make mistakes, but as Winger inhaled the salty air of the ocean floor below her, she thought maybe, just maybe, God had confused her for someone else and this was all a big misunderstanding.

Winger believed strongly in destinies, and she supposed maybe this was it. Her destiny began with a slip pulled from a glass bowl with the name Winger O'Malley transcribed on it, which lead to her currently wading in an ocean that she didn't know how to swim in as the panicked voices of her fellow tributes filled the air.

The salt water stung at the scrapes on her knees from her time spent in her holding cell praying, a cry for help to God to climb this mountain. She confided in her God that she didn't believe she had the strength to survive, that she needed His help. Yet the prayers remained unanswered, the silence hanging thick in the air as she continued to fall apart. Winger cried for days, wondering how she ended up paying the price of the rebellion, when her loyalty to the Capitol never subsided, even as she was escorted away from the only home she's ever known.

The ship she climbed aboard mast a large white sail, the symbol of surrender, something she thought the rebels should have done a long time ago (and maybe she wouldn't have had to fight for her life on a fucking pirate ship, for Gods' sake). The white sails reminded her of her home - the bleach white uniforms of her parents, so bright she saw the residents of her district cower from miles away. And she thought maybe white wasn't a sign of surrender - maybe it was a sign of power, a sign that the Capitol would remain the rightful powerhouse that oversaw all of the districts.

The crowd cheered as she successfully climbed aboard the ship, the first of the tributes among the Abyssal. Winger looked amongst the crowd and realized the ship was aptly named - the blurred faces of the crowdgoers almost made her feel as if she were sinking into the abyss, one crazed fan at a time.

But the cheers grew louder, and Winger's heart began to pound as she came to the sudden realization.

This was God's answer to her prayers.

This was where she was meant to be.

And as she stood on the hardwood floors of the rocking ship, she grasped her sword tighter in her hands. A small smile escaped her lips.

She was going to win. To show the Capitol she wasn't like the others.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[winger o'malley has entered the bloodbath]

[✨ zozo.]

Her first thought is panicked.

I can't swim.

Her next thought is calculated.

Let them be the bait.

So she waits, clinging to the bars of a cage that have kept her prisoner even as the door swings open and offers a false freedom. The crowds roar as children dive in desperately, Terra knows a rash decision when she sees one. She doesn't blame them - her first instinct was to scramble for the weapon bobbing ever-so temptingly a few meters in front of her. But the ships are further away and she's never seen this much water in her life, let alone the strange creatures that saunter through the deep blue that laps at her feet and the walls of the colosseum.

Some children catch sight of the shiny weapons below and pay the price. It's between a squint of her sun-soaked eyes and a query as to where her friend in the whistles was that the water begins to turn red and the first screams break the surface. Thrashing limbs, groans from the crowd, a flap of sails in the wind. One kid makes it to the boat closest to her and another falls off in a desperate attempt to climb the furthest ship from her cage, straight into the path of a shark.

Wait, she tells herself as fear builds to a rapid pace in her veins. Timing is everything. Terra obeys her thoughts, takes in a deep breath, and thinks this through clearly. A Capitolite above her boos as she stalls her entrance into the Hunger Games, eyes flitting back and forth between the sword in front of her, the fins in the water, and the tributes both in the murky red water and hauling themselves up onto the ships.

She needs a perfect opening, one where both tributes and sharks are distracted. But with each minute that passes the sharks in the water grow more as the children flailing about grow less. A victim to panic, she finds a so-so opening as two sharks dart away from her cage and toward another tribute with blood pooling from a wound in their leg - it'll have to do. Time is running out.

With a swing from the rails she gains some air, leaping with the momentum toward the bouy. The crowd above her cage gasps and applauds as she grasps at the floating sphere on landing and claims her weapon - putting on a show like she's been trained to do. Distraction was the key to assassination, to survival, to winning.

Pity she couldn't distract a shark fast enough.

The cry from her chest is primal, the hunter becoming hunted. Terra's faced greater physical pain in her lifetime but it's the unfamiliarity of it all that is her downfall. The water. The creatures. The great floating structure named The Abyssal. Hesitation had paid its price, and as she lashes out at the shark and swiftly stomps her boot-clad foot against its nose she curses her own stupidity, leg aching as she kicks wildly to propel her toward the ship, one arm wrapped around the buoy for balance and the other dragging her sword through the water stained with her own blood.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid"  she mutters, releasing the buoy and hauling herself up onto the deck. She stands, albeit agonising, assesses the damage to her right thigh then wishes she hadn't.

A ravaged puncture wound remains in the space that once held skin, spilling warm blood down her leg and mixing with the residue of water still clinging to her body. Terra's less concerned about the damage and more the image - all good Montague children know to go for the weakest link first.

But she was the first one aboard The Abyssal, and that had to count for something. The hardest part was over now - the next part of her plan ready to be executed.

With two fingertips touching, she raises them to her mouth and whistles loudly a sound everyone in the arena can hear, but only one other set of ears can understand.

Rally to me, the war-tune calls.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[Arrows]

You used to play games with your Brother, but then he died. You used to play games with your Sister, but then she died. You even used to play games for your parents, but then they died. Every game you've ever played has ended on a tombstone. Today will harbor no exception to this expectation. A game of children, a game of death. Up there no one has a voice louder than Execution's wail. All will be equal with ashes waiting in the wings.

For as long as memory can aid you, you've never known anything other than light linen to canvas your lithe frame. Since the day the silence was summoned, you've been in the same olive shirt that Ma sewed for Pa's burial. You wore it to Her's and your Sister's too. Feeling it forced from your skin by rough padded hands feels exposing. When you try to grip it tightly with your fingers, you watch its threads tear and tatter until you're left with a single segmented thread.

It's abnormal, heavy, the outfit they dress you in. The undergarments aren't the issue, but the outer leather leaves you hot and weighted. You don't even realize what's the last piece they plan to put onto you until they are shoving you back through the tunnels. Even underground you can hear it, the din of voices vibrating through the walls. There's going to be a lot of people up there, isn't there? You're shoved one final time into the last shadows of your life. When you reach the Coliseum you will only ever be tombstone or victor.

The sunlight is glaring, the last reminder of your captivity. Sound, voices screeching in a complete circumference, swells against your ears. Instantly you're overwhelmed choking on salt stained air and cuffing your ears with your hands. There are two seas before you as you begin to shudder within your cell: a sea of water and a sea of phantom faces. Figures begin to merge with the water, but you aren't yet able to bring yourself to move. That's when your eyes meet his, far away but familiar. The boy who won last year and he... nods? Your hands fall away from your face.

Furling around the funneling edges of the cell, your hands help you step forward towards the crest of the sea. That boy has played this game and that's all it is after all, just a Game right? Your shudders slowly begin to still even if the fear remains flowering inside of your chest. You've been playing these Games for your whole life, what's another one now? Your eyes raise to look towards the billowing white sails of the nearest ship. There's no way to win if you don't play.

The water's cold compress encapsulates you.

As though a minnow milling through dangerous currents, you slip across the water's surface. Your small size seems to make you less of an interest to the sharks you see searching for prey. It isn't until your hands have taken hold of the ship's edge that one gives you notice. Its teeth tear lightly into your left thigh before you break free scrambling frantically onto the deck of the ship.

Coughing, you expel excess water from your lunges just trying to catch your breath. Cheers seem to be building from the crowd and it's not until you look up that you realize why. Two others stand aboard the same ship and you scramble to your feet. Your hands have begun to slightly tremble again as you flit your gaze between the two girls. Is one smiling?

Then, everything stops.

A note above everything else, a call to your ears. You follow the trailing whistle's wind to the lips of the other girl aboard this very ship. Terra. A light breeze ruffles the sodden hair soaking your head. There's fear and hope. All the world weighing on one whistle that leaves your lips. An old factory song sung to say:

Here, I am Here.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

I got a good night's rest. It's ironic, really, that the deepest I've ever slept was on the eve of absolution. I've grown used to running on empty, pushing past exhaustion into whatever comes after. This feels different. I shouldn't take comfort in how final this feels, but for once it's not a burden to wake up. There's no thinking about every morning after this one. The breath flooding into my lungs feels fucking sacred. It's nice to savor it.

They dress me up like a voodoo doll. A vapid approximation of everything I've built, an opus seventeen years in the making. She's beautiful, with rosy cheeks and dark makeup lining her eyes. All the more dramatic when it starts to run, it's the visual despair that the masses crave.

I squeeze my hands behind my back as they lead me to the arena, tears clinging to whatever remains of my pride. I'm terrified, I'm terrified of admitting that too. My thoughts are a labyrinth without an exit, each toxic thought twisting in on itself until I lose track of even the ground beneath my feet. I wonder, vaguely, if this is my first taste of oblivion.

Because I'm looking into this fucking ocean and realizing I never learned to swim. It laps at my toes, so fucking hungry. Fathomless doesn't do it justice, it's heavier than that. They've sent eight of us to this fucking colosseum and not a single one has come home.

Oh, I'm so full of pride but I'm not stupid. I'm not coming home.

So I plunge into the depths and hope I choke on the way down.

Instinct keeps me going, clumsily paddling against the current with my fingers wrapped around a sword hilt. It feels foreign against my palm, chafing as it cuts awkwardly through the waves. I'm so scared of sinking that I manage to swim, reaching the hull of the boat whilst fighting against the poison that sept into my lungs.

At the very least, I am strong enough.

I sink the blade into the ship's planks, using the leverage to heave myself out of the water. I'm heavier than I remember, this funny costume doing its best to pull me back down into the water as I climb.

I roll onto the deck, hands cradling my throat as I gasp for air. "Shit!" My throat constricts, warm saline rushing over my tongue as I puke onto a pair of shoes beside me. "Sorry!" I clasp a panicked hand over my mouth, looking up at my district partner and trying not to realize how intimidating he looks from this angle.

He's meant to kill me, right?

I smile regardless.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[✨ zozo.]

The call is answered.

Here,

I am Here.

With a spin, strands of soaked hair a halo around her bruised head, Terra locks eyes with the source and her heart bleeds something beautiful.

Friend, she thinks warmly, blinking at the small boy that stands a few meters away. In the corner of her vision two more tributes climb aboard, and under the shouts of tributes on the wind and the applause from the crowd the world falls away for a moment.

"Lachlan," she breathes, breaking into a grin as she stumbles forward. The tip of her cutlass drags across the wooden deck, leaving a thin line etched beside damp footprints. Terra stops at his side and smiles, drinking him in for a moment. Her thoughts become words, "Friend".

Another voice, closer - too close for her liking - interrupts their meeting. "Shit! Sorry!" a girl across the way swears, clamping a freckled hand over her mouth. Next to her stands an older boy with vomit on his shoes and at the sight of him Terra instinctively steps in front of Lachlan. He looks like nothing but trouble, all hard edges and fight. He reminds Terra of the kids she would be forced to fight every month, the worst of them - the ones with something to prove. As the boat creaks and ebbs below them, so does her confidence.

She raises her sword slightly with her right hand and takes Lachlan's hand in her other, setting the scene for the two strangers on the deck. Terra knows better than to make the first move in a fight, to give away her best tricks right at the start. As she stares them down her eyes flit to the rest of the ship, spying ropes and sails and planks. Escape plans. Safe spots. Potential weapons.

As her mind whirrs through dozens of possibilities Terra doesn't make a sound, save from the dripping of water droplets from her clothes to the deck below.

And then a long, low whistle leaves her lips.

Get ready, she warns Lachlan, squeezing his hand tight.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

Stray bits of sand settle between my toes as the water recedes with the passing of the ship. Salty Surprise. Okay, yeah, I'm definitely getting on that one, heh. Hard to hate whoever came up with that, even if they are sitting in the stands, watching, waiting, buzzing with anticipation as a scream rips me viciously from my awestruck daze and back to reality.

"Okay, okayyy," I mutter, glancing up the sides of the colleseum and into the eyes of a child peeking over the edge back at me. I blink, she blinks back. I'm about to curse at her when she lifts her hand and waves.

I can't explain why I do it, but I wave back until she's pulled away from the edge.

Bye, kid.

The sunlight burns my eyes, my neck begging to be at any other angle than the one I have it at. Artificial sea spray and sweat mix to keep the flimsy shirt they forced on me stuck to my skin. I watch a girl punch a shark in the face, others kick 'em in their sharp ass teeth—"Fuck me, fuck me fuck me, fuck this, holy fuck, okay, shit."—and I guess I don't have much of a fucking choice, but to imitate the kids who made it to the boats without becoming chum.

My limbs are heavy, my feet suddenly turning to weights as water fills my boots. I lunge for the sword in front of me, coughing up salt water as I splash around just beneath the surface like a toddler about to fucking drown.

I gasp, shivering as the sun warms my back. Someone whistles. Really whistles. Like a siren, like a beacon, like a language, like fucking home. I whistle softly back, idly singing the songs of my canary friends back home as I cling to the buoy, knuckles turning white around the hilt of the sword I'd grabbed as I watch for fins breaking through the water's surface.

Fuck. I force myself to let go, kicking hard and fast until I'm hugging the side of a boat with breaths drawn in spluttering, spitting, rushed curses as I jam the butt end of my sword into the puncture wounds in my hip until the pain is only heat. Sharks circle below—"You like the taste fuckheads?! Huh?!"—and I've half a mind to throw the sword in my hand through their stupid, bitch ass faces.

"I pissed in there, too, hope you enjoy that."

Fuck, I'm fucking terrified.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[L△LIA]

Turn order is now in effect, starting with Basil.

Ship Four
100/7 — D11M Basil Baptiste [ Lance ]
54/5 — D12F Monty Quinn [ Nyte ]
46/2 — D11f Winger O'Malley [ Bailee ]
36/4 — D10m Lachlan Renwick [ Arrows ]
11/15 — D10F Terra Montague [ Zoë ]
2/20 — D12M Bobby Cobb [ Arx ]

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!

[lance]

Flash.

He's in a cage, locked away like so many of his people had been during the war. Only difference is this time it's not simply for humiliation, it's for convenience, for transportation, taking him away from the home so many had vowed to live and die in. Only they hadn't lived, hadn't simply died - they'd resisted, stubborn fucks who didn't have the foresight to stare beyond their own narrowminded views. They'd live, they'd die, taking down as much of the Capitol as they could with them, but then what? What was the end goal beyond that? What about the people left behind?

Or had that been what the fire had been for? To ensure that there were no people left behind?

Laughable. It was so goddamned laughable. The Rebels of Eleven, pale skin and red cheeks reflecting their rage with the utmost clarity, had claimed that they were fighting for a cause greater than themselves, fighting to liberate the people of their home at any cost necessary. But hadn't they had someone to tell them that sometimes the costs weren't worth the price?

Life hadn't been easy before the Dark Days, sure, but at least children weren't torn from their homes year after goddamned year to fight in some twisted spectacle for their victor's entertainment.

He was lucky, he supposed. He was eighteen, almost a man grown in his own right, lean body muscled and strong from hours in the orchards and fields. Others didn't have that luxury - what of the twelve year olds, still being weaned into independence from their parents? What about the soft boys and girls, those that had never been forced to work a day in their life that Basil had always been jealous of growing up?

Five years on, and it's feeling more and more like some people just weren't aware of the consequences of their own damned actions.

Flash.

He's standing in some sort of ridiculous getup that he can only surmise as some sort of Capitolite attempt to add insult to injury. Joke's on them - aside from the rather annoying scratch of a too-loose shirt against his chest, he's never been educated enough to know what sort of joke is exactly being played here.

Nor has he ever been taught how to swim, being from a district made up of trees and fields and little else, but that might just work to his advantage. Better drown now on his own terms than let himself become the laughingstock of not only his home, but the entire fucking nation as well-

-so he takes a deep breath, then a second, so that when he steps out into open water, no one can see his fear.

Let my death be a greater message than the servitude imposed upon me.

Flash.

Only there are fucking fish in this water, he realizes too late, giant engineered fucks with too much teeth and skin like sandpaper and okay perhaps drowning wasn't necessarily the best idea he's had in the past thirty seconds so-

-he flails and strikes, one hand catching the beast right near its left flipper thing, only it's his hand that comes back bloody. As if being made of fifty percent fucking teeth wasn't enough, apparently their skin was made from fucking sandpaper too what the fuck what the actual flippin-

The sword that he'd assumed was to be used on his fellow tributes comes out far sooner than planned (which, to be fair, was a low bar when never was the original plan). And perhaps luck is on his side because when he stabs, almost comically slow through the water, the steel meets the beast's flesh. And that does a hell of a lot more than hurt himself - suddenly it's the fish writhing in pain, the world's largest thorn stuck in its side, and Basil is the least of its concerns.

And it's about this time that his lungs scream in protest and the lizard section of his brain devoted entirely to instinct and little else realizes that underwater isn't a suitable place for a kid. There's firmness under his feet, something hard and shiny - one hand reaching down because if another one of those goddamned fishes decides to view him as an early lunch he wants to be armed with something more than his fists, before he kicks up to the watery sunlight with as much strength as he can manage-

Flash.

-and he emerges feet from something large and wooden, so close that it's a wonder he didn't smash his head on its underbelly. But there's no time to ponder that - all he can think of is getting out out out out out-

Call it years of honed muscle memory from climbing apple trees back home, but just because this behemoth is much wider than any of the trunks he's used to doesn't mean he's impeded. It's a record time scramble from sea level to safety even for him - yet, that apparently means little when the rest of the tributes appear to have decided that fucking around with the fishes wasn't a wise course of action.

One, two, three, four, five - and oh, how ironic, that he be surrounded by Twelves and Tens and that pale ass white girl from home whose fucking smile (and really, who had the audacity to smile when they were supposed to fight to their fucking death) just reeks of privilege.

But Basil is stubborn and perhaps a little bit crazed (because, yanno, how else is one supposed to be after nearly getting eaten by an oversized fish?), but he isn't stupid. He observes the Tens and their huddling forms and pegs them as someone with a thread binding them together - dangerous to untangle on his own -, observes the Twelves - the boy yelling defiantly into the sea like some sort of firecracker, the girl disheveled and likewise smiling (and fuck's sake, is he destined to die surrounded by kids who treat this entire thing like a joke so much like the fuckwits who'd damned his home?) - and pegs them as useless, before his chest constricts and realizes that, huh, maybe water doesn't quite belong there the way air does.

He coughs, long and loud, and some of the water dislodges itself, splattering onto the deck. Fucking perfect - not only can he no longer die on his own terms, but dying with his dignity intact seemed to be too much of an ask too. Fucking hell.

He straightens, waits for more, and when none comes, wipes his mouth and gazes from duo to duo to solo. Offhandedly, he looks down at the shiny thing he'd plucked from the sea's floor - an axe, somehow not rusted in the salt, gleaming in the sunlight - and then back.

"So?" he asks, because the silence and cliques is unnerving him more than he's letting on and quite frankly if he's going to die in the next few seconds he'd at least like to be able to identify the enemy he's facing. "What's the plan, fuckwits? Are we just gonna stand around here staring at each other until one of us dies from boredom?"

He knows what he should do. But what? He's alone in a crowd, the Tens on one side, the Twelves on the other, each with their own connections. His district partner, on the young side, is out of the question too, yet as tempting as it would be to cut her strings first - because maybe it's just the pale sheen of her face but god does her face look so much like the devil from home who'd sentenced his uncle to death - to do so would destroy the one realistic chance he has at making a connection.

Damned if he do, damned if he don't. And unfortunately for him, the Capitol had learned from last year.

He sees the divebomb at the last second, too late to do more than scream and swing his weapon futilely (first it was the fishes, now it's the birds, what in this arena doesn't want a fucking piece of him?) before something sharp tears into his skin.

Fuck's sake.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

basil takes too long to please the capitol and baby they're impatient little fucks!

divebomb damage from the birdgeoise

tsMMtFrJEN1-8

1: 2016 — shallow cut on right forearm, 3.5 damage

1-8

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

Charming, that one. Is the first coherent thought that manages to break through my salt-water-addled brain. I might not know Robert personally, but I know his type. The mine rats, throats gone black and scarred from coal dust. They lose their sense of taste a couple of years in, but they lose something else the longer they stay in those winding tunnels. Their eyes glaze over and their words get sharper - I think it's 'cause misery loves company and there's nothin' more miserable than a miner.

Somehow I doubt what little was left inside my stomach was the worst thing that's ever sullied his shoes, no matter how he may be acting like it. "You kiss your momma with that mouth!?" I hiss after a particularly loud bitch cuts through birds screeching overhead. "Don't you know better than to talk to a woman like that?" I spring to my feet, sword forgotten as I stomp toward him with hands on my hips.

" What's the plan, fuckwits? Are we just gonna stand around here staring at each other until one of us dies from boredom?" That comes from further away, I think I recognize that man from eleven. I shoot him a glare for good measure, though the brunt of my attention remains on Robert. Does anyone on this ship have any fucking manners?!

Suddenly I'm a whole lot more angry than scared. And that feels good, it feels manageable. I can focus on Robert Cobb's stupid fucking face and the ugly way he's scrunched it up and not the scent of blood as the rude boy from eleven gets sliced into ribbons.

"Fuck you, Cobb!"

I clench my fist and I swing at his face as hard as I can.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

[monty (12f) punches fuckin bitch ass bobby cobb (12m) -- unarmed]
fLGbcRxtO2unarmed
[result]

unarmed

[bailee]

The cawing of the seagulls and the roar of the crowd overwhelmed Winger. She knew she had to do something, something, but as her smile subsided her grip on her cutlass remained gripped heavily in her right hand. Her left hand oozed crimson all over her tattered pirate costume, although she remained unaware of her missing ring and pinky finger that were now currently residing at the bottom of the shark-infested waters.

"What's the plan, fuckwits? Are we just gonna stand around here staring at each other until one of us dies from boredom?"

His District partner was right. Someone needed to do something.

But then Basil proceeded to become an appetizer to the seagull's sharp bills.

Winger eyed her competition carefully. The district eleven boy was already claimed by the seagulls that soared above the crowd. The district tens were holding hands. Funny, she thought, last Games that happened everyone ended up being mauled to death by animals. The twelves had already turned against each other, a slurry of curse words that would've certainly gotten Winger the wooden spoon to the bottom.

Winger faced the particularly annoying one from twelve that emptied her guts on Basil's shoes and then proceeded to punch a guy for swearing. Her jaw clenched with the frustration of being the only person to seem to take this battle seriously.

"This isn't Noah's Ark," she remarked. I will be the last one standing.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

Winger O'Malley attacks Monty Quinn, cutlass (sword)
uxQBfHigbOsword
1146 -- Shallow Cut on Left Bicep -- 3.5 damage
sword

[Arrows]

Ruination is a field of flowers that furls into false fractals of flame. It is the ash of the body and the absence of the being. It is the place where dreams dissipate into delirium. It is the color that lines the edges of your irises because that is the thing about ruination. It exists only in the living who carry the banners of its burden: memory.

And in this moment you...

A spray of salt stains your skin from the sea and it trickles a chill down your spine as she stares. At once, she is all things mysterious and frightening while also being all things exhilarating and welcoming. She is both the breath of hope and the exhale of doubt. In turn, you are the air. Either you will be brought into warmth or expelled into ice. The sea hisses its dissent below the creaking boards.

The embers of your irises steady for pain, but break beneath a simple smile.

Is that your name that leaves her lips? Not some slur followed by spit? Not some sword veiled by the blanket of speech but sharpened by the razors of emotions? But your own name, said in a softness that hasn't been heard since the tolls of the world playing soldier. Not since your own voice used to ring out and call: come catch me, come catch me! 

Her sword scratches the ship.

She breathes. 

Friend.

You break.

For a second, you're no longer a tribute on board a ship while a world watches waiting for you to die. In this moment, you're just a boy who has spent the last five years without a friend, without anyone. A boy who has been playing the game of life alone without even a board. A boy who has been sitting on a tiled floor surrounded by empty bottles that aren't his own trying to ignore the urns on the counter which are. A boy who has been so tired.

But in this moment, you are a friend.

But in this moment, for the first time since your sister died, your lips smile.

"What's the plan, fuckwits?" 

....

Oh.

Your eyes turn away from Terra to the new boy just before the birds from above bore into him. The sight of the blood brings your body back to shaking. That's right, it's a different Game in here than the ones out there. Passivism is unacceptable. In other words, Neutrality is not a way forward. Yet that's something you learned long before now. You're starting to get overwhelmed by all the animosity when a hand finds your own.

Your eyes follow the touch to the girl now standing in front of you. Here she stands, this stranger now friend, positioned between you and steel. Her heart is the fire that makes the oils of home burn brightest. She's chosen and you must choose too.

Your hand squeezes her's tightly back.

Ready. 

This time you'll fight even with a sword that trembles at your timid touch. One whose posture you attempt to mimic to Terra's. Maybe this time, by fighting, you won't be left with loss. Or maybe, in the end, it's really all just one unfair Game.

Never letting go of your tether to Terra's hand, you awkwardly poke your sword out towards the girl who had been smiling at the sea. The one who strikes with her sword first on this ship. It's a choice, that's what matters right? You're trying, the only wrong answer is not to choose. Isn't that the message that bombs, bullets, and games have taught you? A low lit whistle leaves your lips to Terra, fright and hope the tones of its message.

The start. 

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

lachlan renwick attacks winger o'malley ; cutlass {sword}
OOPN1js8v6sword
{Miss -- 0.0 damage}

sword

[✨ zozo.]

The start, Lachlan signals, as the birds attack and the other tributes lash out with their swords. Their movements are unpracticed, awkward and unsure, producing shallow lines of red against skin.

Terra gives the slightest nod in response. The end, she adds with two short whistles, followed by a harmony: together.

Lachlan strikes first, aiming for the girl with the most competence. Another boy is distracted by a flock of enraged birds and Terra takes her chance, acting on instinct and doing what she should have done all along: trusting herself.

Her most troublesome target is caught up in a floury of swear words and fists so she lunges toward the other boy, raising her sword high above her head and pulling her whole weight into the swing back down. Muscle memory kicks in but not before the pain does, flinching as her blade strikes faster than she's used to and her bad leg takes the agonising weight of movement.

Strike fast and hard, they taught her - but always for herself. Never for another. Her damp hand slips against the pull of Lachlan's, tightening her fingers in his clasp. Because she knows what it'll say to the others if she purposely lets go, if she pries her hands from his instead of being forced apart. That he's fair game. That she's no longer in charge.

He doesn't belong here. He's not like her. He's who she could have been, were this world not so terrible. Lachlan's just a child, like she was, tormented by war - except he hasn't turned into a soldier. Hasn't killed anyone. Hasn't spent every last second of the past eight years learning how to kill someone. Terra looks at him, hears his language, and for the first time in forever she doesn't feel completely alone in this world. 

Tightening her grip on Lachlan and her weapon at the mere thought of losing her sweet little friend, Terra regains her stance. Let them rip us apart, she thinks with a stone-cold glare as a violent squabble of gulls swoop and cackle in the distance as they drag a boy into the ocean. 

She'd like to see them try.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

terra d10f attacks basil d11m
CE1PTqhdwrsword
Shallow Cut on Left Bicep -- 3.5 damage

sword

[brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]]

I sigh as I roll myself over onto the deck, sun so bright and hot that the shitty, threadbare clothes I've got on feel only damp within seconds.  The sleeves are fraying and for fuck's sake- it somehow'd taken on an even more disgusting smell. That and the way the ship was rocking? Yeah, sure, makes fucking sense there's puke on my boots. Doesn't stop me from being pissed the fuck off about it.

"AHCK! What the- shhhhhit!  Seriously, dumb bitch, right fucking here with that?!" I reel back, soles of my too tight boots coming off as I slip backward. 

"Whoa!

I manage to catch myself with the cutlass in my hand jammed into the deck beside me.  Anger twists my features as I yank the sword free and slice what's left of my boots off of me.  The fucking worthless piece of shit blade seems so damn dull that I may as well just dropkick everyone overboard. If that's what it's going to take.

But I didn't really want to do that.  Not when they were huddled in sopping, shaking, terrified messes just the same as I was.  But still they all feel way too damn close to me with the tips of their blades raised just little too high.

I snap my gaze to the whistles again as the birds- uh, or the bladed drone things, I fucking guess? Anyway, they're too damn close for comfort.  And I definitely don't like the way the blonde chick whose damn whistles I followed over here's got her sword pointed in my fucking direction, but just before I'm about to spit a few profanities to get her to back the fuck off, I find myself fumbling for a response.

"Shut up, huh?"

My voice hitches funny because I'm thinking about home, the crew, family. Mom. Pisses me off something fierce the way heat rises in my cheeks and flares white hot on the back of my neck. And that's before she's cussing at me.

"Alright, fuck you right back, princess, come on then!"

I swing and completely miss her as she latches onto me and throws me into the deck.  The boat shifts beneath me in a way that keeps me rolling around longer than usual.  When I finally do stop, I'm scrambling and fighting against gravity to stay upright, knuckles white around the hilt of a sword. 

She wants to fight? Fucking fine.

I jab my sword into some rigging nearby only to watch my fists shake when I ball them into fists and raise them at the bi- ugh, fucking damnit, the girl who's got a death wish or some shit.

People cheer from the blinding marble stands, water sloshes over my toes at random intervals as the boat rocks around, the birds' cries overhead the backbone of the song playing in my head as more whistling fills the air.  Blades start to glint in the sun, droplets of blood flinging across my skin on back swings and follow-throughs—and suddenly everything is a little more real again.

"Yeah, it's the fucking- uh," it takes me a few tries, but eventually I get the name out right. "The Abscess-al." I say, grabbing my sword again and keeping it pointed at the girl who's just coated her blade with little red's blood.

"Now piss off before I fuck all you up," I threaten, suddenly feeling cornered, panic gripping at my core and digging in deep as I try to backpedal away from everyone.

Fear's a tricky thing.  It either keeps you safe or cripples you.  No real in-bewteen. Sorta like death in that way, I guess.

I don't say anything when I lash out because I hadn't realized I was going to.

[ saunders collection '05 - rave ]

12M Bobby Cobb attacks 11M Basil Baptiste
f2_Uv8xGFTsword
[Shallow Cut on Left Thigh -- 3.5 damage]

sword