gold mouths cry // [Conqs searching]

There were places in the hallways where the gold refused to shine. The shadows melted their brilliant colors, bleeding black into empty corridors and staircases that lead to what Pyrian could only imagine were throne rooms bathed in beauty or dungeons rich with traps that awaited unsuspecting intruders. With the nasty crocodiles out of their hair and out of their blood, they were finally free to explore the maze of treasure to their hearts content, claiming what was rightfully theirs and feeding their bags with gratuitous amounts of jewels if they so desired. Pyrian chose not to dirty his hands with anymore free goodies because he knew there would be no reward in the end. The mountains of jewels and gems were impressive, but utterly worthless in an arena crawling with death and inevitable doom. What were they going to do, buy their way out of the Games? It was a method of taunting, dangling such priceless valuables in front of children destined to die. Unless these were relics of the past, of course - perhaps a window into a world that thrived before Panem. The building certainly looked ancient. Its walls were cracked in all the right places, a few damp corners stained with wet archaic soil and colored spots he didn’t want to identify. It appeared as if it had stood strong and mighty for hundreds of years, but he doubted its authenticity. He figured it had probably been constructed by the Gamemakers to suit their “theme” for this year’s battle royal. He wondered if the treasures, too, were as fake the arena’s beauty.

The ruby he had plucked from a pile of treasure glimmered brilliantly against his pale skin, beautiful and bright unlike the blood that followed their footsteps. For once, Pyrian had remained untouched by monster claws and atrocious teeth, but with such privilege came a terrible price,it always does. Gypsy was now without two of her fingers and a significant amount of blood, courtesy of the two disgusting mutts the Gamemakers had surely placed in the building as a trap. Asunder was injured badly as well, followed by Owen who had bore a nasty cut to his forehead. After their escape, Pyrian had struggled to match their pace until they had wandered past several corridors, safely out of the mutt’s iron clutches. He had tried to help out to the best of his ability using recently acquired knowledge of first aid to clean Asunder’s blood and try to comfort Gypsy while she attended to her wounds. It definitely wasn’t simple, trying to balance four lives when he should’ve been focusing only on two, but even this far into the Games the four of them were still a pack, and a pack needed support if they wished not to crumble beneath savage mutts and desperate tributes. He knew he was only of little help considering he couldn’t hear and couldn’t follow instructions being blurted out into the open, but he was trying.

The chaos simmered after their adrenaline rushes subsided. Wounds were patched up, grimaces were stripped of their permanence, and now Pyrian craved the rest he believed they all deserved after their bloody encounter. A cannon had apparently sounded during the healing process - the signal of a tribute’s demise - making him feel uneasy in his time of rest. It wasn’t Gypsy, that was for sure, but what if it’s Noah? The trio was still oblivious to his former ties with the district four brawler, and were likely unable to detect or understand his anxiety when he suddenly stood up and paced around piles of treasure with a frown etched into his features. He figured the boys either wouldn’t bother to ask because they couldn’t communicate without using Gypsy for translation, or they just wouldn’t care, and that was perfectly fine with him. He was always silent when Owen and Asunder were talking among themselves, and always quiet when they shared a few words with Gypsy. In general, Pyrian was the quietest member of the pack - of the entire games - and failed to understand how odd it must’ve felt to share space with an eternally silent boy that relied on wandering eyes and mysterious sign language to interact with the world. Not that he would actually care if somebody told him. It didn't matter to him if people thought he was strange, though he wasn’t fond of the lonesome feeling spreading to his chest as he lingered by himself near mounds of useless treasure, seeking privacy when there was really no need. He suddenly pivoted on his heels and sought to return to the pack before he ended up lost in his own consuming thoughts.

Something flashed among the pools of gold, a streak of color unfitting to its lavish background of rainbows and silvers and bronzes. Its small size and white color could easily escape the eyes of most wanderers as it dwelled in isolation, but Pyrian managed to spot it as he walked parallel to one of the high walls of the Hall. It was a strip of torn paper pinned to the surface of the wall, obviously by human hands, and scrawled across it were four lines shaped into the form of a riddle.

Did you trust that your journey had come to a stop?
You were wrong—but worry not, soon you will drop
Through a door to some objects that might warm your heart
Once your difficult trail winds back down to its start

His brow wrinkled. All of this treasure, then; the towers of gold, the chests of jewelry, the carved symbols that basked these halls in the shadows of royalty - was this not the treasure that the clues had been referring to? Was there truly more to this wild hunt? What could the gamemakers possibly offer now? Maybe it's something we can use in the arena, like a weapon, food, or tar. Whatever it was, he was sure his allies would be interested, so he plucked the shred of paper off of the wall and hurried back to their makeshift campsite, eyes glittering with a newfound curiosity of the secrets this arena could possibly hold.