{Se Te Nota} | [Atlas & Salome, Day 3]
Mar 31, 2017 13:59:19 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 31, 2017 13:59:19 GMT -5
The air of the rose garden is a welcome change from the warmth of the mansion. You swagger through the rows of bushes, pausing to stop and stare at the giant butterfly topiary (which in retrospect should have been a clue about what was to come). With your skull helmet full of liquor tucked under your arm, you give a salute to the statue. Were there less dignified deaths in the games? You think someone may have had their head crushed by a shoe—that was pretty bad. And another had a crab blow him to bits. But butterflies eating flesh and bone seemed particularly cruel. You give a shrug and dawdle along, your high heeled boots clanking along the way.
Perhaps there were other tributes wandering the gardens, but somehow narrowly escaping death made urgency of living in the present that much more important. You pluck a few roots from around the topiaries, noting the mint and onion grass, before turning your attention to adding light to the darkness. You pile up a set of logs, and clumsily start another fire. Shadows dance behind you, and the moon in the night sky smiles down upon you. A beeping fills the air, and three more crayons come into your possession.
“It’d be really great if I could get another bottle of scotch, you know?” You stare up at the sky—though there is no answer. You give a shrug, clutching your new found bounty.
With the Madder Lake Crayon, you set about protecting your hands. Pressing hard against your palms, you start to color in what should be gloves. Your drunken state does not help in the ornamentation and festooning of your new gloves. The stars you draw have legs that are little bit longer on one side than they should be, though you continue to scrawl the color across each hand. Every fighter needs a good pair of gloves, and the red is a nice enough shade to match your tattered dress.
You wonder about weapons – your eyes stare down at your upturned skull helmet. Perhaps it was best to go with the theme of death. It is your instruments of destruction that do the job, and it is out of necessity that they are created. Just like death—they come out of the ether, and fade away just as soon as they’ve come. You press your fern crayon against the grass, and begin by drawing the handle to your axe. From each side are the blades, swooping down and ready to tear apart anything in their path. In the center, a set of skulls to remind all those facing you what they are up against.
But not all gifts need to be agents of destruction. Rather—as the fire crackles and spits smoke, you’re reminded of how the Izars would gather for bonfires in the summer. You’d take turns singing songs, or listening to your cousins play fiddle. When you’d been old enough, your father put a guitar in your hands and taught you how to play sweet songs of love and life. You press the cornflower crayon to the earth and begin by drawing the head, with each of the six tuning pegs. Across the neck is the nut, followed by the long neck. Underneath is the bout—the body of the guitar—and you circle around to create both the upper and lower portions. Then the sound hole, and along the lower portion, the bridge. Six straight lines find their place among the head down to the bridge. Last but not least, you draw a small star along the side to mark it as your own. You draw a line along the outside so you can have a strap to throw over your shoulder.
And so you sit, fire alive, and begin to strum out a tune.
[Salome:
-collects firewood and uses
-collects 1x edible plants and 2x med plants
-receives sponsorship
-uses crayons]
