The Mark of an Outcast (Almar Nichols - Day 1)

but what is this, that i can't see
with ice-cold hands taking hold of me
when god is gone and the devil takes hold
who will have mercy on your soul?
oh death, oh death, oh death

Another cannon. The boy from Twelve falls beneath her blade with an almost easy grace, collapsing into a puddle of brilliant sanguine essence that has painted the canvas of both the Arena and Kiera herself. For a moment, she stands suspended in disbelief, the world silent save for the cannon’s echo and the steady drip, drip, drip of blood falling from the end of her Xiphos into the river’s murky water. Slowly, she lowers the scarlet-stained blade to her side, floating in a sea of quiet.

And then, she laughs.

To think, only hours ago she had doubted Kaelen’s irrefutable wisdom when he’d told her she had a Victor’s Spirit, had been more focused on the aspect of impending doom and the grievous nature of her own wounds than her duty to this sacrificial altar as an avenging goddess, ritualistically spilling the blood of the offerings to cleanse the sins of a nation. No one ever seems to understand her elevated thought process, how in one moment she can be cackling over the boy’s corpse and the next she can be leaning carefully over his bloodied form, gently closing his sightless eyes and murmuring hushed hymns of absolution to ease that path of his soul as she pries the trident from his stiffening fingers. Stowing the metallic pole beneath the strap of her backpack, she quietly goes about arranging the boy’s splayed limbs into a more dignified position, so that he could be sleeping if not for the blood that blooms around him in a vermillion flower. ”Be at peace. You don’t have to hurt anymore.”

While she is as ruthless in battle as she was always trained to be, there is an unquenchable spark of mercy at Kiera’s core that seeks only to ease the suffering of the other twenty-three souls imprisoned in this purgatory. It seems that everyone here views her as some sort of vicious monster (she sees the way the girl from Five goes running off as if Hell itself was on her heels, the quiet spark of apprehension in Peri’s eyes when she returns to her alliance covered in blood that is not her own), and yet she finds with a quiet certainty that she can bear their disdain if that is the price of their salvation. In all reality, the only person that understands is Wednesdae, with that same divine knowledge sitting inherent beneath his skin, within the marrow of his bones and in the sturdy arms that she doesn’t hesitate to collapse into when the wound in her chest explodes into another violent paroxysm of pain, fresh scarlet blooming against her toga as she fishes in her backpack for another scrap of bandage with a strangled hiss.

”We have to find somewhere to camp. I can’t keep going like this.” Her voice is nothing but a pained whisper muffled against Wednesdae’s chest, more fatigue in the tone than she would ever like to let on. Grimacing and swallowing another cry of agony, she shakily stands (somewhat) independent of Wednesdae’s support and begins wading off through the shallows, content that she has performed enough divine rites for the day to appease the Capitol Gods.

”And tomorrow, boys, the real fun begins.”

{Kiera flees the area, claims Almar Nichols’ trident, and uses her last 5ft of bandages for -1 damage}