a tale of heroes and tragedies {FH vs. Aeths vs. Mor, Day 6}
Mar 23, 2014 11:50:39 GMT -5
Post by Python on Mar 23, 2014 11:50:39 GMT -5
Tighten your tie
You're something to die for
L A I L A S Y C A M O R E
DISTRICT5 | THIRTEEN
You're something to die for
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L A I L A S Y C A M O R E
DISTRICT5 | THIRTEEN
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Hat boy. Claire. The bastard. Moss.What kind of stupid name is Moss?
There were too many familiar faces tonight, enough to make her squirm at their makeshift campsite cloaked in shadows as Willis passed his bottle around. When it reached her tiny fingers one sip was enough to drive her senses haywire with disgust, and she practically spit the bitter poison and pressed her knuckles to her lips. A haste shake of her head and the strained expression flashed as she swallowed was enough to convey her displeasure with the substance adults seemed to be so hooked on. ”That was gross,” she coughed, reaching for the charred cow meat in her bag to bite into it and erase the flavor. She was long overdue for a meal anyway, her stomach shrunken painfully against the notches in her spine – at least that’s what it felt like beneath the itchy wound across her stomach. The meat was a welcome comfort to her suffering organ, and a delightful taste that made her forget that there had already been enough cooked meat in the arena today. She retreated to her tent afterward, expecting a pair of familiar eyes to greet her.
She found nothing.
Once upon a time she slumbered in silence before the Sycamore house crashed and burned beneath malicious flames. Creaking floorboards used to be her only lullaby, but when she shared ashy space with Edgar before the donations granted them a new home she had learned to lull herself to sleep with the sounds of soft breaths and the sight of a chest rising and falling as gently as a butterflies’ flapping wings. Here it was Claire’s breaths she had learned to appreciate, every evening bringing her a sense of security. Now the absence of any signs of life by her side made her uneasy. She was sleeping in solitude, vulnerable to anything that might come wandering into her tent. Days before this disaster she could rely on the knowledge that there was a teammate by her side with a sword within arm’s length, prepared to defend whenever possible. Now it was just Laila, just some little girl wearing a cape and trying to fulfill impossible wishes. A child, that’s all you are.
She didn’t sleep for long.
The black smoking tower was an ominous landmark to wake up to. It seemed to promise nothing but torture and death, fire and blood, yet she could not convince the boys to move. She tried to tell herself that she was here for Claire’s sake, but why? Her body would not be buried here – it would be lifted by a capitol hovercraft and stolen away from them, melted flesh and all. She wondered if Claire had a family, and if there would be a big funeral for her. She wondered if they would bother looking into the casket to see the statue of ash and bone that didn’t resemble Claire in the least. She wondered if they blamed her. Or maybe she doesn’t have a family, maybe she has nothing. She couldn’t know these things, and it frustrated her. She should’ve paid more attention to the other tributes. How could you be so stupid, Laila?
She scowled and shoved the sloppily-folded tent into her bag as aggressively as possible. When she glanced back up the damned mountain was still mighty with its presence, hissing at her with heat laced with malevolence. Sooner or later it would drive her away – preferably sooner, because she hated this place. This was where the bisons had ripped her open. This was where a dragon had swooped from its perch and tried to roast them alive. This was where Claire had roasted alive because of some damn kid.
This was where she was going to die if she didn’t get the hell out.
As they abandoned their little camp (merely imprints in the soil from where their bodies and items had rested), somebody invaded the territory. Four of them were approaching head on – black silhouettes against a bright canvas that Laila wished she could bask in rather than the treacherous shadow of the volcano. ”This is bad,” she muttered, because this wasn’t just a duo of kids or a single dragon. These were eight capable hands, four wielders of bloody weapons that could overcome her. As they grew closer, she recognized three of them with a start. Soap was among them, and she became consciously aware of the note that was still tucked away on her person. ”Chin up!” she blurted out, primarily out of impulsive fear. She didn’t want to fight so she tried to delay the clash of metal with trembling words. She knew it wouldn’t work.
Claude was there, too, the crazy bastard. I like that crazy bastard. He was her district partner, and she wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or disappointed that he was still breathing.
Then there was teddy bear girl, missing an entire fucking arm. Laila cringed at the sight of the stump. This was the girl who had helped her in the training center, who had gentle hands and talent with threads and needles. Now she had only one hand, and Laila instantly felt heavy with regret at her own realization: Things are different now, and one arm makes her weaker.
”We can’t help each other anymore,” she said, her tone surprisingly flat for somebody who was quaking with terror.
We can only kill each other.
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template by chelsey
template by chelsey
[attacks Savannah – katana]
mMtmYw7bsword
Deep Gash on Right Bicep -- 8.0 damage
mMtmYw7bsword
Deep Gash on Right Bicep -- 8.0 damage
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