without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3)

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 10, 2018 15:01:07 GMT -5

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Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Nov 10, 2018 15:01:07 GMT -5

[presto]

[/presto]

we leave the battlefield but not the broken – that is us, in a both literal and metaphorical sense. under a yawning sun, i rush inside parson’s arms and remain there, until the agony becomes a persistent ache that refuses to fade.

cladded in absolute ruins and debris,
i do not know where the battlefield ends

( and my skin begins. )

the pain forces me to retreat and i remember the ruby-red blood, scars of ultra-violence engraved on our bodies.

“fuck, i am bleeding out.” hands scavenge through the rhinestone bag, fishing out a needle and thread. the sting of the silver needle is reminiscent of the oculins’. torn patchworks of scars close as the thread loosely mends, putting right to what had been wronged.

it isn’t a seamless work,
but at least the bleeding halts,
red openings are sewed shut.

i remember the act of breathing,
and not holding a breath in.

the sea croons, its orchestra of tides a pleasant ambient melody as parson and i stare at its endlessness.

soon, the silver parachutes rain softly down from the grey above and open with a serpentine hiss, revealing an assortment of items.

the first one i take is the beanie, thanking whoever sent it. the elastic fabric cups the two bandaged areas where my ears once stemmed from, hiding the deformities.

next, are the shin guards – carefully wrapped around the legs, checked for protective tightness.

i leave the knife, rope, and shovel untended for a moment as exhaustion quickly possesses these bones – which feel age-old, worn out, hollowed. after head leans on parson’s arms for support, sleep arrives without the forceful clench of eyes. within the short reveries that ensue, parson’s arms diffuse and become my mother’s:

darkly cold, unrecognizable.
she knows me, and i am homebound.

but, a tongue growls and says, in soundless words, that she isn’t pleased to see me, her bastard son, accursed blood. a brown waterfall of hair cascading down her face, phantasmagoric woman, characteristics distorted by a haze of dream. before i could see her face, parson moves, stirring me awake on perfect cue.

waking up a sunset and tangerine skies,
it strokes my belief for luck.

i feel his hawk eyes upon me, watchful and attentive. the awaited question comes after bouts of unwelcomed quietness, “do you want me to bandage your head?” his words give rise to a phantom agony at the back of my head that is there no more, subsided.

“no. if you were to bandage every broken part of me, we'd run out quickly.” i could hear it, the constant crack – crack – crack beneath the ribs. broken is me, rustic jukebox full of torn wires and melodies for a coin. broken, yet functional. it makes a tender sense to me.

“maybe this will help.” he whispers and i feel his roseate brims, colliding with mine. open sesame, and mouths part softly under each other's. worn-out lungs breathe the shared oxygen and air, rejuvenating themselves.

i could feel the roof of my wicked mouth, burning. cherubic angel and his mouth overflowing with sins, what a paradox i am.

when we pull back, i am breathless, scattered pants like a dog's. butterflies migrate from the pit of stomach to my pale throat. “okay, it did. a bit. did the jellyfish unloosen a few things in your head? because you never make the first moves.”

the edges of his mouth broaden – pearly whites making an alabaster crescent of a smirk. he smells of raw salt, sun-dried fish, and if i were born in four, i'd associate him with the dark-blue sea and its marine residents. but, the sea was disclosed to us through bards and stories. it was a tale most of us considered as false, construct of a dreamer on ecstasy pills. now it rests ahead, a never-ending blue.

“i am just full of surprises.”

“all bad ones, i assume.”

“well it is up to you if you want to find out but fuck it, i am going to bandage your head. it is enough i can do after that shit show.”

“it's not your fault, parson. luck is feeble.”

fingers reach out, scouting desperately for his delicate ones. ten fingers, all silken and purple with a forest of veins. thoughts shift channels – back to the oculins and how parson did not manage to end one.

“but it was amusing to see you getting all frustrated.”

“thought I'd kill at least one of them, i can't get beaten by Hell of all people!” i half-expect his touch to grow violent under anger, but it doesn’t. “frustrated? so you like a frustrated guy do you?” a scoff goes at the words, along with a blissful eye-roll.

“that's a sexist remark. and no, i do not like a frustrated guy – just like death, my love does not discriminate.” his fingers move, dexterously.

“you have very soft hands – fitting for a softie.”
eyes catch parson’s cheeks bloom with color;
he’s red, apple of my gaze, pomegranate of my sight.

“not sexist, not when Anatalia is slaying like she is. there is just something about Hellion.” he retorts, hastily adding: “i'm no softie, i am just medically trained.”

“i'd be more scared of the frail than the strong. the latter tends to throw themselves into death's arms. plus, medically trained is a good excuse for softness. but, you have strong bones too. it's a good balance.”

“you really have something for words, hardly understand any of it but they’re compliments and i don’t get those very often.” the fingers retreat, the agony abated. “i’d give you some but i can admit words are not my strong point.”

"uh, i read. and write. and i've lived through most of the things i've read about."

“i can read a bit, my writing is shit but there’s no use for it now.” he throws himself over the dry floor and i join him, the distance between us echoing the thick darkness between stars and constellations. “there's always a use for writing, parson. words immortalize our memories, makes them last forever.”

to prove myself, fingers pick up a rock – sharpened bluntly at its crest – and etch upon a rock, an ‘A’ in broken cursive. “i’d write down my memories but i doubt anyone would really read them.” he grasps the rock as i pass it onto him.

“aren’t you suppose to put a love heart around it?”

“no. maybe just a giant penis.”

i watch, as the rock in his hand craves a ‘P’.

“p for penis.”

“p for penis.” tongue repeats, before head carries itself back onto parson’s left shoulder. with some adroit guidance from the latter, the knife, rope and shovel are dismantled and reconstructed to a makeshift spear. its silver head glistens under a pale moon, deadly.

i let the sea’s erratic symphony lure me to an agitated sleep, now emptied of nightmares – they'd ran out. even my wealth of sleep ghosts had been looted by the arena, all scurrying for shelter because they understood the arena as the most horrendous scepter of all.

the sun rises, colors in blossom;

after thirst and hunger have been slaked and sated, we let our biological compasses guide us to new lands. feet tread through thickets and water and odd bearings, steps mechanic unlike our heartbeats.

soon, the wind becomes sultry and the ground below parched, cracked at intervals, moisture dried by the instantaneous change of habitat. the tides become ambient noise, and then a distant memory, taking a safe space in my house of memories.

we enter a place adorned in greens, ferns lush and welcoming. the palm trees overhead cast shadows upon the pathways, creating spots of darkness i actively give avoidance to. grass thins as the ascend up the hill starts.

it smells like the world burnt down here,
and what is left are ashes and the scorched.
a cough bursts, and the sound it makes,

echoes,
echoes,
echoes.

i study the letters – obviously indicated as charred remnants of disaster by its blackish and ruined edges. what the fuck happened here. there's a tension to the air, a thickness in my breath. skin, as if sensing it, breaks into gooseflesh. a noise demands our gaze and –

from the shadows, come more shadows. instincts rise like a cobra stirring awake, a hand reaching for the iron of my spiked blunt.

this time, they do not belong to a creature.

lex’s face comes to a stark distinctness and i feel my heart topple over its muscle wall. she has seemed to aged in a short span of days, skin contours drawn thin with fatigue.

she and i,

we wear skeletons to akin to each other’s. the sevens. the greened woodlands. the sap clinging to palms and the wood-dust under nails. she’s the pith of a home i ran from, but now desire to return. a pad of thumb smoothens over the waffle necklace i wear, and my house of memories grows rickety, closer to breakage.

“lex.” tongue mouths her name, and, it tastes so familiar. i long for slumber, but that is not a choice, so i cherry-pick a target from what is offered ahead of us.

sight moves, away from lex, resting upon the freckled girl beside her. the name, i do not recall – but, her face sparks recognition. she carries the priceless beauty of both a sunset and a sunrise, but for the sake of survival, i erase the stray observation from mind.

her face is a foe’s. her bones
are to be torn and skinned
for my jagged crown of raw ivories.

“you’re the one who stabbed parson in the chest.” fingers loosen upon the hilt of the spiked blunt and reach for a new material. when the spearhead rises, it isn’t laced with the barbaric intent to kill, only to alert, a silver warning that screams one word: run. “stabbing someone in the chest doesn't exactly count as foreplay now, does it?” cracking a joke in the face of adversity, a classic.

[ angel attacks ‘DENALI LYONS’ | spear ]

t_bCSkrZzspear

[ 3078 -- Shallow Cut on Left Thigh -- 3.5 damage | spear ]

spear

Last Edit: Nov 11, 2018 11:43:18 GMT -5 by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 11, 2018 11:21:35 GMT -5

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Post by d1b. xylia fray ♕ kaяi on Nov 11, 2018 11:21:35 GMT -5

in these stolen moments
the world is mine
there's nobody here
just us together

It was too early for death and she wanted to go back to bed. She wanted to close her eyes to the nightmares of the arena, and when she opened them again, she wanted to see something better.

She blinked once. Nothing. She blinked again. Nothing.

She found Minx's gaze in the earliest hours of the morning, before the sun had cracked itself open on the horizon and let its light bleed into the sky above. He couldn't sleep either, apparently.

She refused to let herself care. It was reckless and stupid and pointless. If she was to survive, he was to die. She knew that and she recited it to herself; at the very least, she could save him for last. Make it to the end, chop him down so she could go home. He was the boy who'd haunt her dreams, though, the one whom she would see even when she closed her eyes years from now. The one who would never go away.

After some deliberation, Sable decided she had to be okay with that if she wanted to make it out.

She found herself standing on the H of a gigantic sign sometime later, when the sun had started to rise. Everything was bathed in a gray-blue tint, silvery as a fond memory. She looked down at the rest of the arena, tired eyes waiting as if they would catch sight of something better, then to Minx again. The tension was high; she didn't think she could remember a single word being uttered the entire morning.

With a roll of her eyes, she held out a hand to him.

"Dance with me."

Her hands found his shoulders and they began to lazily sway to and fro; it was freeing to do something so simple in a place so bizarre. She found herself feeling lighter, if only for a moment, and she was about to smile when she noticed something move in the corner of her vision.

"Get ready to fight," she whispered, soaking in one last moment of normalcy before bolting for her sword.

wip so I can keep this fight going! Will fill in later.

then, we dance on the H
of the Hollywood sign
'til we run out of breath
gotta dance 'til we die

song: lust for life

[ Sable attacks Hellion; sword ]
S7CbFn4Disword
[1094 -- Shallow Cut on Left Hip -- 3.5 damage]

sword

Last Edit: Nov 11, 2018 11:23:16 GMT -5 by d1b. xylia fray ♕ kaяi

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 11, 2018 14:18:12 GMT -5

Quote

Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Nov 11, 2018 14:18:12 GMT -5

[attr="id","lPostBody"]

[attr="id","lHeaderPic"]

[attr="id","lSpeech"]will you save me the fake benevolence
i don't have time, i'm
just too far gone for a-tellin'
lost my pride

A bright starburst of light rouses Lex Lionel from her slumber. Her fingers curl around the hatchet she stashed under her makeshift pillow — a handbag filled with fluff, embroidered with a figure that Denali insists is the RLS Trolley Problem driving through the trunk of a redwood tree despite Lex's suggesting that the depiction is some what more... anatomical in nature. The hatchet takes a few quick cuts before Lex identifies the source as a camera flash, rather than a firebomb or lightning strike or Glamour and Vepar reaching down from the sky to personally smite her.

[attr="id","lSpeech"]"I sleep-fight, you know," she grumbles at Denali, her adrenaline receding. [attr="id","lSpeech"]"You really shouldn't wake me like that unless you want some more stitches."

"I'm already in stitches!" Denali laughs like a nerd at her own lame joke. "Get it?" Lex glowers, too grumpy to humor Denali — who gleefully takes another picture of her annoyance and cracks up harder.

With a stretch, she rises from her mat, hoping that the opportunity for more yoga is enough of a distraction for Denali to leave her alone for five minutes. Enough time to rub the sleep from her eyes and to swallow the taste of a full night's open-mouth snoring. Denali takes the bait, stretching to greet the sun or thank the earth or whatever. So Lex takes her seat on the edge of The Trolley Problem and starts her morning ritual of heckling the other girl during her search for inner peace.

The minor flock of birds does most of Lexandriy's work for her, circling and cawing and landing on Denali every time she holds a pose for more than three seconds. ("Aloof impala..." [attr="id","lSpeech"]"— into bird fountain!" "...into queen of the meadow..." [attr="id","lSpeech"]"— into pigeon roost!" "...into disgruntled ocelot...")

They head out when Denali complains about no longer being able to hear Mother Earth over Lex's disruptions — all before the sun has risen fully.

They go where the wind takes them. At least, until they reach the bottom of an incline. From there, Denali demands they follow the spotlights — ("The birds are keeping me up, they think it's sunrise. I'm gonna find them. And smash them." [attr="id","lSpeech"]"I haven't had any trouble sleeping." "You'd sleep through a stampede of spider elephants.") — so they get out to drag the carts up the hill by hand.

After losing rock-paper-scissors ("Are you going to keep throwing rock?" [attr="id","lSpeech"]"The premise of this game is ridiculous! Rock absolutely overpowers paper. I'll demonstrate —"), Lex tows the cart from the front, while Denali ostensibly pushes from behind.

Soaked through with sweat, Lex makes it to the top of the hill... and immediately hops on the RLS Trolley Problem for a high-speed thrill ride down the ridge. The short trip down is infinitely more fun. Denali drums, the birds cloud overhead, and Lex abandons the futile hope of steering.

The rickety landship speeds down the hill right towards a giant metal O, but hits a fortunate mogul at top speed, cartoonishly launching the cart caravan right through the broken scaffolding in the middle.

The rush of adrenaline already pulsing under her skin, Lex is fully prepared to take on the group of tributes clustered around the sign. She hops down from their landship — sword swinging and yell savage — before it skids to a stop against a scorched tree trunk. (Today, she does not face plant into the dirt.)

[attr="id","lSpeech"]"Angel." She greets the jarring reminder of District Seven in turn. If de Costa is a barometer for battle damage, Lex could be doing considerably worse than the scrapes and bruises she bears. The boy sports twin bandages on the sides of his head — and while it wouldn't shock her to learn this was a mere matter of fashion, or that he'd simply been channeling the ghost of some tortured artist, it doesn't stop her from remarking about them. [attr="id","lSpeech"]"Eerie seeing you here."

Yelling some nonsense of his own, Angel takes a cut at Denali and — I'm not making a habit of saving you. He's too far afield of where Lex landed; Denali can handle herself; it's still too early, too complicated to take cuts at the angsty boy who'd shared his swiped liquor with her on the train. One small kindness, one small mercy. She'll kill him later if she has to. Gladly.

But for now —

[attr="id","lSpeech"][ attacks parson, golden gate (sword) ]

FFmIn3F8jsword

[attr="id","lSpeech"][ 1047 - Stabbed in Stomach ]
[attr="id","lSpeech"][ 9.5 + 1 blades + 1 goldengate = 11.5 dmg ]

[newclass="#lHeaderPic"]background-image:url('https://i.imgur.com/g6cy09o.jpg');width:442px;height:674px;[/newclass][newclass="#lPostBody"]color:#553344;background-color:#ddccbb;font-size:12px;font-family:Georgia;width:441px;text-align:justify;[/newclass][newclass="#lSpeech"]color:#220011;font-weight:bold;[/newclass][newclass="#smallestCaps"]font-size:14px;font-variant:small-caps;[/newclass]sword

Last Edit: Nov 11, 2018 14:20:34 GMT -5 by gm bourgeois decadence [aya]

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 11, 2018 14:50:16 GMT -5

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Post by d7m fraser birk ♚ frankel on Nov 11, 2018 14:50:16 GMT -5

A souvenir of a rancid retreat from death, I have no claim to the carcass as I am not its hunter, but a feast is my way to make peace. The next line etched onto my agenda will be to seek the flames to burn away the parasites so that a meal can be made from the beasts. Seafood has never been a part of my palate, I guess the games is more than just bereavement but a way to experience new firsts.

I am a bandaged corpse, from the torso to my cranium, wraps and wraps of the fabric. My palms cup the back of my head, the last brutal wound gratefully slapped onto me by the last breathing beast. That is why I chose its carcass to haul alongside me, an eye for an eye or in this case a flesh wound for a fine meal.

Silence encases me and Angel, I guess this is a time for recollection. The what ifs of the day gone by. It is already so clear that my performance in it was so dismal, all the recollection has past and the need for conversation to cure the blindness in my mind is called for but the arrival of gifts from the sky is enough to awaken some excitement. New armour to strap to my skin and some water purifying tablets. ”I guess this is you then Teddy, I will only say thanks so you keep sending me more.” A perfect smirk direct to the sky, I know he will be watching.

My canteen is already filled with the liquid that we have spent the day dancing in, one drop of the tablet and I watch it dissolve. Never has the taste of water been so refreshing, the same effect as a hard liquor hitting my tongue but I doubt the regretful hangover will come with it in the morning. ”This is some good shit.” I make up some more purified water, tucking the canteen into my handbag along with the spare tablet. Rationing is something I have experienced before, it will be no new test to see how long I can listen to my stomach grumble.

For a moment the troubles before the present ceremony are forgotten but one glance at Angel reminds me of the agony he must be enduring, earless and soaked in blood. ”Do you want me to bandage your head?” It is all I have to offer now, the deed has been done and only healing can cure it. "No. If you were to bandage every broken part of me, we'd run out quickly." The clear holding of pride, these healing hands have been declined but the roll of bandages it out and I am ready to attack.

”Maybe this will help.” Since our night together, the buzz of it has lingered in me, despite all that has happened since. Only one more second to be with him, to feel his soft skin on my own, it is all that is needed to calm the thirst to be with him again. I am quick to move it, a fragile connection of our lips, more than just a second. Eyes are barely closed but a force pulls me away, I don’t deserve more than a second with him…

”Okay, it did. A bit. Did the jellyfish unloosen a few things in your head? Because you never make the first moves.” A smirk tears through his wicked words, it burns because truth rattles along with it. This is a statement that I cannot fight back from.

”I am just full of surprises.” I shrug, picking up the remains of a roll of bandages, the fight for mending Angel’s wounds has not vanished. ”All bad ones I assume.”

“Well it is up to you if you want to find out but fuck it, I am going to bandage your head. It is enough I can do after that shit show.” Consent has already been declined but this is the opposite of hurting. Delicate fingers recollect the basic first aid training, to wrap not too tight or loosely, old methods begin to flood back to me. This is easy stuff. ”It's not your fault, Parson. Luck is feeble.” My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I work, the bloodless spear is strapped to my back and Angel’s words rub salt into my wounds. ”But it was amusing to see you getting all frustrated.”

I shake my head, my eyes not lifting from the task in hand. ”Thought I'd kill at least one of them, I can't get beaten by Hell of all people!” The reason for my crusade of bitterness towards Hellion is still unidentified and her performance today just makes it stronger. ”Frustrated? So you like a frustrated guy do you?” Anything to take away the groans of the day gone by.

“That's a sexist remark. and no, I do not like a frustrated guy – just like death, my love does not discriminate.” One swift move and I could trigger the pain to ignite from his wound but I guess we have all had our fair share of agony. ”You have very soft hands – fitting for a softie.” I pull away one hand from the task, rubbing my burning cheeks to hide the redness from his sight but I must have been too late from the look on his face. ”Not sexist, not when Anatalia is slaying like she is. There is just something about Hellion.” Something that is still not clear to me. ”I'm no softie, I am just medically trained.” I need to defend that bad boy persona the Capitol so kindly attached to me.

“I'd be more scared of the frail than the strong. The latter tends to throw themselves into death's arms. Plus, medically trained is a good excuse for softness. but, you have strong bones too. It's a good balance.”

I really haven’t a fucking clue what he has just said to me.

“You really have something for words, hardly understand any of it but they’re compliments and I don’t get those very often.” I tie the last knot of the bandages; the task is accomplished. “I’d give you some but I can admit words are not my strong point.”

”Uh, I read. and write. And I’ve lived through most of the things I’ve read about."

Here is the chatter that I yearned for, a conversation simply flowing with each topic. From gaping wounds to the use of words, the kiss in between was certainly the highlight.
“I can read a bit, my writing is shite but there’s no use for it now!” I throw myself back, intending not to move from this position again until the morning breaks. My head rests flat on the ground but my face turns to Angel, the conversation does not end here yet.

"There's always a use for writing, Parson." Angel joins me in this time of hibernation, the warmth from his body ignites the overwhelming blood bumping in my veins. "Words immortalize our memories. makes them last forever."

A gift is handed to me, an etched ’A’ on a stone, so clearly his own initial. This is some romantic sappy shit for sure, maybe I should secretly call out to Teddy to send down some bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates. (The chocolates to keep for myself).

“I’d write down my memories, but I doubt anyone would really read them.” I fumble with the rock in my hand, an intricate gift that a part of me wants to carry through the games. “Aren’t you suppose to put a love heart around it?”

"No. Maybe just a giant penis."

I surrender to the chuckle that slips from my lips as I take hold of Angel’s knife, scratching my own addition to the rock.

”P for penis.” Angel repeats my words, his head lands on my shoulders and I guess I am not allowed to move from this position. I let the day fade away, begging for the next to be an improvement.

I rise early, another round of gifts has arrived in the form of hats, like the characters in the picture books back home. ”Annie are these yours?” I pick up one with a black and white bear in the centre of it, it sits perfectly on my cranium hiding the bandages underneath. ”I think I would make a good pirate.” I pull out my spear, re-enacting one of the fights from the books. I lunge the spear to the invisible target. It is just like in the old days, me, Jacob and Teddy playing characters in the streets. The famous ”Arrr” slips from my lips, fucking hell Parson you are not ten anymore. I pack away the spear, the moment of a past childhood quickly gone, I cannot revisit that part of me anymore…

”Annie, you especially would make a perfect pirate, missing hand and all. Maybe you should get a hook” Each of us gathers up the mini camp, the jellyfish’s carcass will be hard to haul, it’s tentacles escape from my handbag. A simple fix, I just tie two of its tentacles around my shoulders, a new stylish backpack.

HONK!

”Holy shit man!” My heart jumps from my ribs at the horrendous sound, my spear seeks its creator and one of those deliver birds drops its package at my feet. Oh fuck, they sent it back. I bend down picking up the piece of card before kicking away the pot of piss that I thought I’d disposed of yesterday.

I don’t need to test this to know you’re obviously on drugs.

Ha, clever. And what if I send something more solid next time. The words are painted in red, the substance so clearly that of blood as it starts to brown. A wicked game of chain mail, a delivery word is next on the agenda to reply to this new pen pal of mine.

I trudge behind Angel, my fingers wrapped around the handle of my spear and my eyes to the ground. Soon the earth turns dry and the air is less fresh, more charred by lingering smoke. Large letters decorate the horizon, a sign for freedom?

Words escape from tongues and their holders are quickly identified, Angel is reunited with his District partner and the girl that accompanies her, the one who so kindly returned my gift and scarred my torso. Angel is quick to pick up on her significance, rude of him to strike her before we can be properly introduced.

”I guess you didn’t enjoy my present then, Five?” My free hand runs across my abdomen, the spark of two day old pain reminds me of its existence. ”I accepted yours, remind me of your name again and I will send you something gift wrapped this time.”

Before the ribbons can even be tied, Angel's district partner does not retaliate to defend her ally. "OH FUCK!" A perfect guttering to an already present wound, surely my intestines are twisting out of me right now.

I am so sorry Angel but your district partner needs to turn into jellyfish meat. "That wasn't a kind introduction Seven, let me shake hands with you."

Parson attacks Lex Lionel | spear

M59_NItejspear

[3067 -- Shallow Cut on Stomach -- 4.0 damage]

spear

Last Edit: Nov 11, 2018 14:51:00 GMT -5 by d7m fraser birk ♚ frankel

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 11, 2018 16:17:27 GMT -5

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Post by Python on Nov 11, 2018 16:17:27 GMT -5

There was no longer any indication that he should trust Sable Delamore, but he was too cowardly to run. He needed a second pair of hands to help with him this wounds, he needed company, he needed safety in numbers. He had watched her refuse to react when a coyote pounced on his body, teeth sinking into his skin to rip flesh and organs from his body. Should the time come for Minx to be cornered by a monster or another tribute, it was clear that Sable would not save the day. She was not his hero, she wasn't even a friend. Survival connected their hearts with thin wire and he was a fool to think otherwise.

There were no friendships here.

As he watched the sky, he wondered what her plot was. To use him until he inevitably died? To betray him while he slept? Blood seeped from clumsily-stitched lacerations in his arm and stomach. His left arm remained in a sling, ghost fingers flexing with pain in the middle of the night. Any sane person would call him a lost cause, yet she remained by his side. Why? It had taken him some creative thinking. Adopting the mindset of a killer rather than an average, working citizen was challenging, but he came to the solution. A human shield. How else would he serve a purpose? To kill him would be to dispose of a weaker link, one the enemy could expose. As long as he remained with Sable, he would be the focus of every encounter because he would be the easiest to kill.

Spite pleaded him to leave, to let her fend for herself. Survival instinct warned him otherwise. To leave Sable was to corner himself and abandon his only lifeline. At least with another weapon by his side he stood a greater chance of lasting longer. There was also a stubbornness rising from the depths, through all of his pain and despair - if she dares use you as a shield, prove her wrong. All he could do now was fight, just as he had the day before. He had been the one to finally slay the coyote and sprint from the cave. Sable had been the one to follow. What did that symbolize?

Potential.

He woke up with defiance on his mind. Pain slowed him down but they turned their back on those hideous caves, eyes beholding a bright new day. They avoided the ominous forest, taking a detour to a pond that deceived the eyes. Up close it was not water reflecting light into his eyes, but a molten substance that looked suspiciously dark and dangerous. He made a note not to touch it until he learned what it was.

"Dance with me."

On a hillside, wind in their faces, he wished Avery were here. Though it was odd, he complied with her request and gently placed his hands on her waist. They swayed until footsteps ruined the moment. Sable was quick to act on it, unsheathing her sword before Minx could get a good look at the tributes. There were multiple, and one of them was his district partner. "Sable, maybe we should-"

Run.

Too late for that.

"Sorry! Nothing personal."

[minx attacks hellion - spear]
yNX|oVIO1spear
Deep Gash on Forehead -- 9.0 damage

spear

Last Edit: Nov 11, 2018 16:17:59 GMT -5 by Python

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 11, 2018 17:03:32 GMT -5

Quote

Post by ryan on Nov 11, 2018 17:03:32 GMT -5

And she screamed out sounds that she had never heard before.

She was surprised with herself. Sure, she had lost a hand, but that did not mean she lost the ability to be the warrior she knew herself to be.

However, these jellyfish were crafty. So crafty that Annie could not keep up with them. The moment Hellion thrusted her blade into the last one, Annie let out a sharp breath, realizing that one of the hardest fights she had been in had finally been over.

The moment the mutt hit the ground, she began to harvest parts of the mutt that she thought were going to be useful. She had never dissected a jellyfish before, as they were not very common in the cuisine in four, but she figured it couldn’t have been that much different from dissecting a regular fish.

Her knife pierced the skin, but she did not take her time. No.

She ripped the serrated end through the fish like she was a wild animal. She wanted the beast to pay for what it had done to her friends. She wanted it to feel exactly what she was feeling in this moment.

And so she slashed and harvested like the animal she was starting to become.

And then a cannon broke her out of her trance.

Her first instinct is to look back to the people that she wanted to protect with her life, and to her relief none of them were harmed.

She watched them walk off in the sunset as broken as ever, and she followed, leaving pieces of herself that she never thought she would lose here.

She tried so hard to keep herself whole throughout her whole life, but now that she had met death twice and lived to tell the tale, she is letting go of things that do not matter anymore.

She collects her knives on the way, each one smeared in blood and goop that she didn’t even want to know what it was.

Guts were littered on the planes of her knives, and for a moment, she thought about leaving them in their condition. But she knew that the smell would eventually permeate the area in a foulness that no one wanted to be around. So she headed to the water in the tide pools and simply started to scrub her knives. A task that was hard for someone with one hand, but Annie managed.

The water felt cool against her skin, and while she did not want to go any further in the water before her, she couldn’t help but thinking about going for a swim. However, that would have done nothing for her.

There was nothing more for her to do here, and so when her knives clean and free of mutt goo, she took a second to slink against a tree.

She wondered what it would have been like if she didn’t get reaped.

There were many moments where she couldn’t fathom not being a tribute, but the moments she did she cherished. She wished she could have lived a life like Angel.

He was free from the obligation that was thrusted upon her shoulders and he seemed like he was happy for a long while.

It had been two years since the boy he loved was ripped away from him, and the moment he died, Angel turned to Annie for comfort. However, she did not know how to show him any of the comfort he truly deserved.

Annie was always straight forward with everyone she had met in her life, and when she asked Angel what she could do, he simply told her to just be there for him for a while.

Talk to him.

Help him forget.

Drown out the memory of Dymas Nyx, the boy he loved, until he didn’t think about him anymore.

And Annie would look at him and shake her head. She knew too well that would never happen.

Your love is what made you strong Angel. Don’t ever forget the man that Dymas Nyx was.

Annie told him time and time again as she tried to piece his life together like she was trying to do to herself.

At the end of the day, Dymas went through hell in his arena, and Annie was going through hell in this arena.

There was no denying how much the parallels were dead in her face.

But that is what made her stronger.

And she laid there for a long moment, not a clue where the rest of them went.

She heard parachutes in the distance, and when she stood up for the first time in what seemed like hours, she realized that there were a good amount of them for her.

She looked at them and then at the sky. It had to have been Leon.

She simply nodded to the sky before ravaging what was in them.

She found armor, something that she wished she didn’t have to have, but at this point, she was preparing for war. She had no intention of dying here after all.

She pushed through the stuff with one hand and started to pull things out in succession of importance. However, her eyes cocked at the thick shoes that looked like stilettos after closer inspection.

She smiled, slipping them on and feeling the energy in her body do a complete one eighty. She could not lie, she felt like she could do anything in these, and so she wore them proudly for a moment as she walked around to fish out some water from the pool.

The moment she filled her canteen she dropped an iodine tablet into the canteen and gave it a vigorous shake before taking a long guzzle of the now liquid gold that was in her canteen.

She finished it off and decided that it was best for her to not go in for seconds, slipping the iodine tablets into her bag and filling up her canteen for later.

She pulled on the armor piece by piece and while it would probably feel heavy to most people, Annie’s muscles could bear the weight without much resistance.

Her gaze fluctuated from Parson and Angel to Hellion, and Annie could not lie about being impressed with how well Hellion fought.

Annie at first did not think much about the girl from twelve, but Annie soon realized that she shared the same mean streak as her. They were kindred sisters in a way, and as much as Annie did want to read into the act of chivalry made during the fight, she felt like it would be best left untouched.

At least for.

She heard a loud honk awaken her, and she noticed that there was a delivery word next to her body.

Her eyes rolled for a moment before noticing a rose in its mouth, and as it plopped the rose into her hand and flew off, she picked it up and saw that it was from her district partner.

Annie couldn’t help but smell it for a moment, taking in the hints of pine and floral aroma that she didn’t find too often in four.

She was actually impressed that Wander was able to find something as beautiful as this rose in a place that was dark and heavy.

She slipped it into her clutch before falling back asleep, but not before thinking about what she could have sent them back.

and then the Anthem woke her up.

She looked up for a moment and saw that two people had died, which made sense because of the amount of cannons that Annie had heard in the distance.

She was just thankful that it was not any of the people she was traveling with.

She was not sure what she would do if one of them had perished in the fight they had earlier in the day.

She was attached, even though she didn’t want to admit it.

It was the boy from 11 and the boy from 12. The one who got the highest score from the GM’s during their session. Annie also remembered him from the bloodbath, and as much as she wanted to forget, she realized he was one of the boys who was traveling with the girl who had chopped off her hand.

”Good.” Annie said, feeling like she had been vindicated in a way. Now if she could just see her face in the sky. She knew that day would come soon, and she would savor every single moment of it.

And then morning came, and Annie heard a loud beeping sound in the distance again.

This time a chest had fallen down near the group. When Annie went to go open it up, she found four very interesting pirate hats at the bottom of the crate.

There wasn’t a note attached, but as she pulled them out, she noticed that they seemed like the ones that Dymas had worn back in the 78th.

Each one had a different design, and Annie wondered who would send such things to her.

She had half a mind to throw it in the water and leave it behind, but then the thought of Angel had crossed her mind, and how much he really did miss Dymas. At the end of the day, she was doing this for him.

She was trying to return to him.

And so she clutched the shell necklace that he had given her the day of the reaping and put the hat over the helmet she had been wearing.

She needed to remember her roots, and this was the best way for her to do just that.

She then walked around and gave out the other pirate hats. The first one she got was one with a panda on it instead of skulls and crossbones.

She handed it to Parson and simply smiled.

”I think you would make a great pirate Parson.” Annie could help but smile, a part of her personality that she thought died a long time ago. It was like Dymas had found his way into her body, and he was controlling her.

The funny thing was.

She was going to let him. Just for a little while.

”I don’t know if I would want a hook. Maybe a knife or blade of some sort.” Annie smiled as she handed both Angel and Hellion their own pirate hats as well.

”Wow, we do look like real pirates.” Annie said with a wicked smile plastered on her face. She took a deep breath before looking out in the tide pool and simply smiling.

”Well, lets go look for some booty.” Annie smirked at the others while she led the way with the band of misfits, all broken and tattered up. But whole.

Just the way she wanted it to stay.

And then she heard words in the distance.

They had traveled to a weird sign that was near the south edge of the arena.

She wondered what could have been found here. What treasures awaited her.

She took a deep breath, realizing that the treasure was in the form of four other tributes. Two of which she knew by name, and two of which she knew by number.

Before she could ever react, Angel had run in front of her and stuck his spear right into Denali.

”No formal introductions?” Annie said, feeling refinement dripping down her phalanges before preparing herself for the hell that was about to ensue.

”I guess I should thank you for giving me a hand.” Annie smirked at Lex before she took her sword and went right for Parson.

The blade looked like it had sunk deep in him, and Annie could not believe just how vicious the girl from seven was.

However, the sounds from Hellion were enough to snap her away from the fight that had already been ensuing between the people she knew.

She moved to Hellion’s side, realizing that she was already taking a beating that looked even more brutal then the one yesterday.

Annie pulled out a knife, the red one again, and focused her attention on the girl from eight.

The sight of them dancing in the daylight made Annie question their sanity, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. Their blows spoke louder than their actions.

And so Annies had to send a message that sliced clear across the battlefield.

And so with a deep breath, she pulled her hand back and let the knife fly.

Annie attacks Sable Delamore || Throwing Knife #1 (the red one)
zOiXkWWmnthrowing knife
[9043 -- Miss (knife lost) -- 0.0 damage
(Thrown Knife)]

Accuracy Reroll Day 3
throwing knife
[9174 -- Severed Ear -- 8.0 damage + 1 for Target Practice = 9 damage
(Thrown Knife)]

throwing knife·throwing knife

Last Edit: Nov 11, 2018 17:06:08 GMT -5 by ryan

jackson thomas [d6m] arc
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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 11, 2018 18:55:27 GMT -5

Quote

Post by jackson thomas [d6m] arc on Nov 11, 2018 18:55:27 GMT -5

Remember when I said I wouldn’t let my princess die? Yeah, I regret that now.

I’ve never really been someone that exposes themself to emotion like that. It seems like a free call to vulnerability, and a free call to weakness. I, if anything were to describe me, am not weak. I hate that feeling. The feeling where in the pit of your stomach, maybe even you felt it today, where you feel useless. Your guts feel like this weight that’s grown you stuck on that spot, and your mind shuts down. Your “ego” shuts down and it’s this world that you used to know firing away at your thoughts.

You thought you were strong? You thought you could do this all on your own? You thought that somehow, with your frail mind and body and ill-experienced romantic feelings, you were able to protect your “princess” with all of your ‘willpower’.

Wrong.

You almost died. She almost died. You were as much of a warrior as a pea.

Though, you killed the last two. I was like a little rat who saw the leftovers a family had left on the dinner table. Scurrying on up the table, taking the remains of what they had left, and scurrying away until there was more to take.

I was no warrior, I was a weakling. A rat. Last resort, even.

Leaving that fight, I was no victor. I was a loser. I was an emotional, messy rat, who had no purpose in this world.

I was a knight dethroned, because a real knight doesn’t feel emotion.

I never slept.. It’s hard to when you’re wearing a dress completely soaked in water. It was like sleeping on a wet rag. A haystack, maybe. It felt like I was staring up at the stars forever, and my eyes closed to act like I was sleeping. Wonderful things happen when your eyes are closed.

For example, hearing Parson act like me “taking” his two kills was the only thing weak about his masculinity.

You’ve got much smaller problems than that, sweetie.

For a hot second, Parson was acting like he was the top dog. Like he was supposed to be this manly-man. I stifled a laugh under my breath.

Suck my ass, ungrateful cunt.

They arrived like a bunch of bats. One, two, three four.

The attacks arrived like nails. One, two.

My sword flew like a bird. A dead one, I have no clue.

It just flew.

A sleepless night provokes an emotionless action.

[attacks sable, sword]
UpuRZrXpusword

sword

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 11, 2018 20:55:07 GMT -5

Quote

Post by L△LIA on Nov 11, 2018 20:55:07 GMT -5

[attr="class","Denali1Container"]

[attr="class","Denali1Title"]I got bite, I got brains
I got to raise some power to reign

[attr="class","Denali1Content"]

They keep coming for her — in shouts of defamation born from displaced hostility or in cruel little jars that slosh in other languages that still tell her exactly what they think she deserves; in the form of birds that peck at her arms when she tries to sleep and caw and chirp and twitter at the glow of a distant light casting confusion upon the sky. The Lyons name may have been made famous by her brother last year, but Denali seems to have turned it infamous on accident. No matter what she tries, there is clearly no peace to be found for her here. The birds that descend upon their camp call out to her throughout the eternal dusk of night and she doesn't sleep.

Obviously her heart is here to be the sacrificial inkwell for a narrative penned by other people, but that won't stop her from pressing her own fingers into her wounds in an attempt to have a say. She whiles the sleepless hours away reminding herself why she needs to fight these battles of blades and blasphemy — (Mom. Dad. Sevy. Lulu. Ginny. Rio.) — but also why she needs to remember that she's not the only person in this godawful place that doesn't deserve this fucked up abuse — (Zion. Cassia. Mackenzie... Lex. Bette. Minx. Any of them. Even the knuckle-dragger mailing her piss as punishment for something that's not her fault, Ripred, it's not any of their faults). Maybe all that therapy helped her after all, just not with coming to terms with her brother's murder. That was never going to be something to accept. It shouldn't be. Something that deranged shouldn't ever feel normalized, but Akira wasn't to blame. The glaive that hollowed out Zion's skull didn't actually belong to him, just like how the hands that hold Denali's knives are not her own. She is no butcher, no matter how her twin cleavers cause her to appear.

Denali plucks one of the stitches on her chest free, scratching at the gruesome wound so that fresh blood wells up. Maybe she's a villain to countless faces she can't remember, the bloodbath a blur in which only her desperation to survive can be recalled to memory, but that doesn't mean she has to accept the part she keeps being told to play. Hell no. She'll accept what she damn well pleases and everyone can... well, everyone can just be deeply confused by her sincere well wishes. A small army of blood lyons are doodled onto postcards, guarding watch over messages of hugs and apology. "Look how cute this ghost turned out!" She boasts proudly, holding her drawing up to one of the crows creeping over her shoulder. The restlessness of the birds may be contagious for Denali, but Lex seems to be sleeping just fine and so she attempts to make the most of the audience she has. "It's funny, right? Ironically happy little ghosts and zombies in the arena? Like funny haha... not like funny in the head... right? Whatever. I like it. I'm sending it." There's a pause as she holds it out for the crow to take, narrowing her eyes and issuing a warning. "Don't you dare be a scary omen bird when you deliver this. That poor sad boy is already worried enough. Come back and plague me if you've got to," she scowls at the flock of birds scattered in the treetops above, "Ripred knows I won't be sleeping anytime soon anyway. What's one more?"

Taking her words as an invitation, a plump little birdling with the grotesque hybrid face of a vulture and a toothed dinosaur hops right up to Denali, opens its almost comically oversized beak, and screeches right in her face. We're friends now, human? "No." Denali replies, eyes wide with horror as it bounces closer, nuzzling her elbow with its raw, fleshy nightmare face. Bestest friends! "No, no, no! Leeeeeeeeex —" The keening is outrageously pathetic, but not enough to wake the blonde open-mouth snoring at the sky. The baby demon monster bird trills happily to celebrate this new social union. Denali can only throw her head back and shriek with futile frustration. Still, Lex does not wake. "Lex!" Nothing. "Wake up, you wooden-headed, pine for brains hellcat!" Yeah right.

Sucking in a deep breath that is nowhere near as calming as she'd like, Denali grabs a camera and begins snapping one unbelievably unflattering photo of her ally after the next. There are close-ups of drool stains. There are full frame shots of awkwardly sprawled limbs. She makes sure to get not just one, but two images from a truly iconic up the nose angle. "You got a pet llama stashed up there, Lex?" Denali cackles to herself and the flashes of the camera finally cause the other girl to stir. Threats are laid out, but after being haunted by an entire omen-flock of hell birds, Denali doesn't relent. It takes the unsubtle relinquishment of the yoga mat to convince her to set her most recent "art" project aside in favor of another — failed — attempt at finding peace.

The birds join Denali in her yoga stretches, claiming her head, arms, shoulders as their new perches while Lex throws vengeful snark onto her pile of woes, renaming every pose with... well, brutal accuracy, to be honest. ("Aloof impala..." "— into bird fountain!" "...into queen of the meadow..." "— into pigeon roost!" "...into disgruntled ocelot...") All hope of leaving the birds behind is lost once the duo sets sail for new territory. Undeterred by the rickety motion of the land ship, the top of the rainbow sail is quickly claimed as a roost for a number of highly questionable feathered... creatures.

It's not until the RLS Trolley Problem is careening wildly down a hill that Denali stops worrying about the murder of crows stalking her and begins freaking out about more pressing matters, like — "Fuck! Oh my Ripred! Lex! Lex?! I don't think we'rE GONNA MAKE I—" whether or not their jerry-rigged shopping cart deathtrap of an excuse for transportation can even fit through the giant metal O they're flying toward. The carts soar through the air, Denali at the helm, screaming with the fear of death itself in her lungs as the tattered and bloodstained remnants of her white gown billow out behind her like a storm roiling on the horizon.

Pulling herself up from the crash feels like rising from the ashes, her flock of doomsday birds taking wing all around her in a maelstrom of ominous screeching and flashing talons. A spear slashes at a gap in her rhinestone armor, but she pulls her leg back before it can sink too deeply into her flesh. There is a vicious snarl in her throat as she flings herself forward in retaliation, only to catch sight of Mackenzie's other tribute. Denali promised to watch out for Lex as thanks for the kindness the victor of Zion's Games showed her brother — for giving him an actual chance at making it home, despite his own best interests — but she held her breath before adding Angel's name to the deal. It's too much to expect her to give both Seven's a pass and yet —

Over his shoulder stands Denali's own district partner and she flinches, bile burning her tongue. Swallowing it down, she tries to look away, tries to pretend the faces in this fight are the same meaningless blur as in the bloodbath, but it's too late. Seeing the meek, weeping boy from home with a spear in his hand is surreal. Last year Zion was standing in Minx's place and she can't do this, she can't throw her knife into the heart of her own brother's successor. She can't even lash out at the kid who weighs so heavily on Mackenzie's conscience because after two days of fighting to survive in this land of psychotic bullshit, she can't bear to be responsible for one of the already too many deaths that will haunt him until he dies. Denali only has nightmares of Zion's demolished face (and Faux's, the too honest voice within her whispers) to haunt her and that was enough to get her chucked into a mental institution. "Not you," she whispers, turning her face away from Minx and Angel. Not yet.

"I guess you didn't enjoy my present then, Five?" Heckles the voice of someone she doesn't recognize. He runs a hand across his stomach like — He's pregnant? No. I need sleep, Ripred. What's he on about? — "I accepted yours. Remind me of your name again and I will send you something gift wrapped this time."

Denali blinks and suddenly it dawns on her. "Piss boy!" She exclaims at the top of her lungs, pointing and trying to catch Lex's eye, enthusiastic about solving that disgusting puzzle. Right on cue, Lex plunges her sword into the gut of the mail bomb bully and Denali whoops without thinking, pumping her fist in the air as she cheers: "Bitch in a battle jacket! And you said you weren't my knight in shining armor. Someone's earning their rhinestones today." Reaching both hands over her shoulders, Denali whips the twin cleavers out from the knife block strapped to her back, running the edge of one blade over the other so the metal rings out sharply through air. Her tiny ogre bird squawks emphatically, attempting to mimic the sound. "Listen, Piss Boy, I want you to know: I don't hate you," she shrugs matter of factly, "but you're gross. Like really, really gross." Then the hands that are not her own raise the butcher knives up and throw.

girl gang gin wigmore

[ attacks parson; thrown cleaver ]

K6KeUW1v|throwing knife

[ 9155 // shallow cut on back — 4.0 damage ]

[newclass=".Denali1Container"]width:450px; height:450px; background-position:center; background-repeat: no-repeat; padding:20px;[/newclass]
[newclass=".Denali1Title"]font-size:10px; text-transform:uppercase; margin-right:65px; margin-bottom:1px; [/newclass]
[newclass=".Denali1Content"]width:300px; height:0px; overflow:hidden; opacity:0.9; font-size:10px; text-align:justify; padding:1px 10px 0px 10px; -webkit-transition-duration:1s; transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]
[newclass=".Denali1Container:hover .Denali1Content"]height:250px; overflow:auto; padding:10px; text-align:justify; -webkit-transition-duration:1s;transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]throwing knife

Last Edit: Nov 11, 2018 21:22:13 GMT -5 by L△LIA

( C H A R A C T E R S )

napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.
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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 12, 2018 11:02:56 GMT -5

Quote

Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Nov 12, 2018 11:02:56 GMT -5

[presto]

[/presto]

i trace the violence around us as one would a painting, feeling each stroke gravid with intent yet remain jagged to touch. everyone loathes the carnage,

but none of us are apologetic for wanting our lives back. even those who, on a tenth birthday, proclaimed their absolute hatred for it. even those who willingly signed a pipe dream and a death wish in exchange for grandeur they've figured out was only a golden veneer.

i want to make a hole inside me whole,
not hollow it further. and that hole belongs
not to my back, or holy mouth, but my ( heart. )

silhouetted against the tall, charred letters, everyone's so small and everything else is so vast. distance becomes illusory and controllable;

i do not know where the ends of this arena lie but it could well be a meter away from where we stand. we're just mere atoms, buoyant and crackling above the lines of Glamour Kinkade's palm.

he could crush us to red pebbles in an instant.

the fray begins with an immediacy that takes effort to follow – eyes darting from left to right, trailing the blurred silver of weapons.

but, an image is etched on my skull and it's lex, pushing her blade past the muscles and stomach of the boy i vowed to protect. a cry falls silent;

i falter, like i always do,
supernova crushed open
to a shower of starlight.

i watch his blood transform, from a scarlet bead to a river and hold my breath, even counting the seconds down for a cannon sound to resonate through my bones, to signify his demise. to end my mercy and reluctance to fight.

but, parson swears and stumbles back and a mix of relief and something else flood my chest to its brims.

“parson-” footsteps echo after the girl from five; she's the one he sent his special package to. why he was foolish enough to do that, i do not know, or care.

fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

call me a coward, and mock me for it,
but i want to live, and living
doesn't mean making rivals.

( ‘you volunteered; pipe dream, or death wish?’ )

i want to prove to mackenzie that this is a pipe dream,
and not the latter.

parson forms a steady momentum, but his attack doesn’t reflect it and – fuck, we could die here. it’s a grim likelihood i refuse to confide in, but circumstances force me to.

“what's your name?” i ask the freckled girl from Five; cheap banter waters down the guilt i feel, at least for now. “dandelion?” it'd be ironic if she was named after a flower. “i am angel de costa, but you can call me cigarette boy.”

swimming upstream, against a current of red, red saying betrayal, red saying take care of yourself. red consumes everything. it’s a hideous color, reminiscent of—

( motel neon lights, alarm clocks,
alley-ways, and blood splattered onto bricks. )

an existence i ran away from.

i feel the world below burning again, the spark ignited by the fire of our hearts. soon, a bushfire would grow and feast upon us. a cannon would sound, and we’d tremble as its concussions thrill through our purplish veins, and a body would break under cursed iron.

blood is bound to shed – and it’s a kind of justification that steels my fingers as each one curls around the hilt of the spiked blunt, drawing it out of its sheath, letting the bloodied jagged ends run free and ravenous.

they hunger for the red we'd all bleed.

[ angel attacks ‘DENALI LYONS’ | spiked blunt ]

GEcLxr6Ucspiked blunt

[ 14134 -- BROKEN RIB -- 7.0 damage + 1.0 | spiked blunt + strength ]

spiked blunt

Last Edit: Nov 13, 2018 8:52:43 GMT -5 by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 12, 2018 16:35:03 GMT -5

Quote

Post by d1b. xylia fray ♕ kaяi on Nov 12, 2018 16:35:03 GMT -5

in these stolen moments
the world is mine
there's nobody here
just us together

She had felt pain before.

Physical pain that she still had the scars to prove and emotional pain where she felt as if her heart was being ripped into two. But nothing she had endured prepared Sable for the searing hot pain that rushed through her entire body.

She had seen the knife flying towards her, almost as if it was in slow motion. It was right in front of her face, silently floating through the air. She had moved, but not fast enough as the blade sliced cleanly through her skin, taking her ear with it. Hot blood started to gush down her side and stained her already blood red dress. For the first time since she's been here she was covered in her own. But she did not scream, she did not cry.

She was numb.

And she has been for a while.

Instead she bit her lip. She bit her lip until she could taste her own blood pool into her mouth. Her eyes narrowed as she prevented the tears from slipping out. Then she turned to girl who had thrown the knife, one who she recognized from District Four, but who's name she didn't care to remember. And she did the most sane thing she could think of.

She smiled.

"Oh a mermaid who thinks she's a pirate huh?" the words slurred from her mouth with a sarcastic laugh. "I was particularly fond of that ear. We can trade though and call it even? What do you think?" She blinked and Minx was at her side, to her rescue.

Maybe one day they'll get to finish their dance.

His spear swung at her attacker and hit the skin perfectly. There was so much precision, as if he'd done it before. She laughed at the thought of him ever holing a weapon at home. "Thanks," She said with a wink, and took her eyes away from the others for a split second.

It was just enough to give another tribute time to swing and place their sword into her stomach. She gasped in pain, but managed to stay on her feet. The only thing going through her mind was what Everly was doing. She silently prayed that she wasn't watching, her sister didn't need to watch as her blood pooled at her feet, as she was slowly dismembered. She didn't need to be in pain too.

Death crept closer, inviting her to come play.

But He had never been friend.

And He wouldn't be today.

then, we dance on the H
of the Hollywood sign
'til we run out of breath
gotta dance 'til we die

song: lust for life

[ Sable attacks Hellion; sword ]
usDfBwtbGsword
[dg on back - 8.5]

sword

Last Edit: Nov 12, 2018 16:36:57 GMT -5 by d1b. xylia fray ♕ kaяi

❝ moon dust in your hair, stars in your eyes ❞

gm bourgeois decadence [aya]
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 12, 2018 18:52:15 GMT -5

Quote

Post by gm bourgeois decadence [aya] on Nov 12, 2018 18:52:15 GMT -5

[attr="id","lPostBody"]

[attr="id","lHeaderPic"]

[attr="id","lSpeech"]well i can dip my head in the river
cleanse my soul
i'll still have the stomach of a sinner
face like an unholy ghost

She twists. When Lex Lionel pulls her sword from Parson's stomach, she rotates the hilt. It is unsporting self-preservation: he dies, she lives. Whether that's from blood loss today or sepsis tomorrow, the net effect is the same.

At what point does the melee become malice? It isn't as if Lex signed up for this — the way that Angel had. Given the opportunity to choose between stabbing Parson in the stomach and sitting home dovetailing drawer boxes together, she'd pick joinery every time. But someone else decided.

Maybe it becomes malice when she smiles. Is that wrong?

No, her face just does that. Besides, now is hardly the time to contemplate morality and the ethics of putting up a fight in a kill-or-be-killed situation.

The boy she's stabbed doesn't seem to agree.

"That wasn't a kind introduction Seven," spits Parson, swiping at her with his pike. He cuts a slice in her battle jacket, but the armored vest won from the wealth behaves as advertised. "Let me shake hands with you."

[attr="id","lSpeech"]"Don't touch me," she warns, eyeing the eight fingers that clutch his dirty shaft. She's serious, even if he'd been jesting. [attr="id","lSpeech"]"I'm sure you haven't washed the piss off those."

For her part, Denali decrees that Lex is earning her rhinestones today. Which is good, considering the handful that scattered under the point of Parson's spear. Clearly she'll need more to replace those lost — not that she has any doubts that Denali would question the necessity of having fully-bedazzled armor going into battle.

The whole scene is an honest-to-fuck clusterriot. Pikes and swords glint in the sun, clang against one another. Knives and ears and insults all fly through the air, but so do thanks and praises.

"I guess I should thank you for giving me a hand."

Lex's face lights up, flooded with peculiar relief that the severed appendage made its way back to its proper owner. Not that it's any good detached like that. But better than the delivery bird making a meal out of it, she supposes.

[attr="id","lSpeech"]"Happy to hand it off, Four!" she hollers back. No need to forsake politeness — the one-handed girl's battle is adjacent to Lex and Denali's, but does not intersect. They have no quarrel, and Lex would like to keep it that way for as long as possible. The more bitches who aren't trying to gut her right here and now, the better.

But that still leaves Parson — and Angel at this rate. She can't — won't — let her district partner slide forever. And Parson Pissboy is out of chances.

[attr="id","lSpeech"][ attacks parson, golden gate (sword) ]

lNdNn9qwssword

[attr="id","lSpeech"][ 1106 -- Shallow Cut on Back -- 4.0 damage ]

Last Edit: Nov 12, 2018 18:52:49 GMT -5 by gm bourgeois decadence [aya]

{characters}

certified kindergartener
stranded in "beach" "city"
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call me jaded

without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 13, 2018 14:47:31 GMT -5

Quote

Post by d7m fraser birk ♚ frankel on Nov 13, 2018 14:47:31 GMT -5

Agony. Pain. Torture. Total fucking discomfort that is mere seconds from making me just end it all. There is no word for it. To suffer at the hand of another who I have not wronged. I signed up for a change, not a crucifixion. This is not how I imagined this fantasy land to victory.

I am facing punishment for the petty crimes, a an over the top sentence but I guess interest grows with the years of fleeing the law. The sins of feeding a friend’s addiction. The ignorance to another friend’s condition. Selfishness is what I am wanted dead for.

The spear merely tears at Seven’s armour, no contact worthy of matching the impaling of my own abdomen. Pulling the spear back with my elbow, a shriek slips from my tongue. There is no point containing this distress, it is clear from the gaping hole that I am being defeated. I can walk away from this wrapped in foot after foot of bandages but it won’t fend off the bacteria and septic shock that follows.

I really am totally screwed.

”Piss boy!”

They can’t just leave me with the physical strikes, but I guess death does not come silently. "Listen, Piss Boy, I want you to know: I don't hate you," Something about being gross too, I guess people just don’t appreciate gifts anymore.

Yesterday’s attack after attack was blocked from the mutts and today, I am surrendering to their weapons. The girl who impaled me in the bloodbath flicks one of her knives at my back. It pushes me forward slightly on impact and I nearly keel over. There is a desire to just curl up into a ball and sleep away all this pain. Just a couple of hours of shut eye, the only pain management remedy that I have on offer.

”Piss boy? Excuse me but I am Parson Cham to you.” A little respect to the dying isn’t hard, at least I am doing Teddy proud with some manners. Self-taught manners I must say, father’s way to welcome me in the morning Thought you would have ran away in the night by now. Fucking fabulous. ”Come on, I bet you can be a bit more creative than that for a nickname.”

Angel brings out another weapon, whacking it at the armour of the District Six and it takes far battering compared to my hit on his district partner. I wonder who we can devour of their armour the quickest.

"I'm sure you haven't washed the piss off those." I guess there are some actions in life that will bite at you forever, so this is what they call regret? Regret that I volunteered for this shit show. Regret that I sent a pot of my own piss via bird mail to some random girl that stabbed me in said shit show. Damn, I bet there is some entertainment from this. Piss Boy Pinot will be flying off the shelves in the Capitol right now. ”I hope you washed that sword before you unwelcomely stuck it in me. Infections aren’t fun you know.”

My back get’s no relief from Six’s hit, another kiss from Seven’s sword but I guess my retaliation needs to be on the one less defended, the girl whose glitzy armour is falling from her. ”Hey Sparkling Disaster, lets take that shit off you shall we.”

Parson attacks Denali Lyons | spear

ds0ZDEg3dspear

[3179 -- Block -- 0.0 damage]

Accuracy

spear

[:bruh:]

spear·spear

Last Edit: Nov 13, 2018 16:19:27 GMT -5 by d7m fraser birk ♚ frankel

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 13, 2018 21:07:50 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Python on Nov 13, 2018 21:07:50 GMT -5

Minx followed her lead - nothing personal - and thrust his spear until he saw his least favorite color again. He didn't understand how anyone could take pleasure in the act of killing. Blood smelled like stale metal and stained the inside of his nostrils. The sound of steel piercing flesh made him wince. He didn't like the scar he had carved across the girl's forehead, but that didn't also mean he regretted it. In this place, he couldn't afford to hold his stomach at the sight of blood or hold his breath to avoid the smell. His body had to take all of it in; the pain, the images, the smells, the tastes, the sounds. Otherwise he would be written off as weak.

Truth was, Minx already knew he was weak, but that didn't mean he had to act like it. It also didn't mean he had to pretend he was a maniac. He would still show mercy and make it very clear that he was not enjoying himself. There was nothing he hated more than watching sadists flourish on television. The only triumph he had felt after plunging his spear into the heart of a coyote was relief that he was still breathing. It had been a close call, far too close. Teeth gnashing in his face and claws ripping his skin. He didn't want to deal with it ever again.

Blink - everything happened at the speed of light in this place. One moment Sable was fine, the next moment she had an ugly gash on her otherwise pretty face. Someone had lopped her ear off. It drew a gasp out of him. What the hell? He mourned his fingers, but at least he still had both of his ears.

A question of why are we here crossed his mind yet again. He had been in the midst of suggesting a retreat when Sable had charged forward, and for what? These tributes had quarrels with each other, why not let them be? Minx would rather hide out and wait for everyone else to drop dead than involve himself in someone else's rivalry. Even with Denali here he wanted to turn the other way.

Sable was hellbent on killing this girl. A slash across the spine, and now Minx knew he wouldn't be able to convince her. Vengeance for her ear, he supposed.

It's not worth it if you die.

They kept on.

[minx attacks hellion - spear]
UNw6zRV_Wspear
Deep Gash on Right Calf -- 8.0 damage

spear

Last Edit: Nov 13, 2018 21:08:36 GMT -5 by Python

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over the moon, where all the wild things are

without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 14, 2018 0:05:21 GMT -5

Quote

Post by ryan on Nov 14, 2018 0:05:21 GMT -5

The sounds of cannon’s echo through the arena, and each time one goes off, Annie is scared.

Scared, an emotion that she does not know well because she was always taught to hide it when she felt it.

Her father spent years trying to break her of regular emotions, days and days of painstaking training to ready her for this very moment.

She hated every moment that she spent with her father, but there were small microcosms that she could find a little bit of beauty in.

And as much as she didn’t want to hail her father as someone that she could love and adorn, she knew that without him, she would not have lasted as long as she has so far.

He was an evil that she needed to accept if she was going to have any chance to make it home, and that was all she wanted.

So amidst the booms of cannons and the screams of others who dreamed of going home just as much as her, she grabbed a knife and got ready for her next attack.

The sound of metal crunching on metal would never be something that she would get used too. Sometimes her father would demonstrate such a thing just to desensitize her to the sound, but that did not mean it worked.

No.

Sometimes it made it worse.

The sound of Angel’s weapon scraping against the already harsh metal made Annie’s eye open bloodshot, and even though she wanted to say something about it, there was no time.

The girl from eight was already taking another swing at Hellion, and one that looked like it was near fatal.

She looked at the girl from seven and smirked. ”If we all weren’t fighting to kill, I would pull out the hand and give you a round of applause.” Annie said, focusing on Hellion now. She was in bad shape, and while she wanted to sit around and trade dumb hand jokes with the girl from seven, she also was the enemy here.

Realistically, they were all the real enemy here, even her alliance, but come hell or high water, Annie would not let them fall until they weren’t many of them left.

And so she would protect them with her life.

”Hellion, you okay?” Annie said as she started to focus her attention on the girl from eight.

”And I liked my hand, but you don’t see it on my body do you?” Annie shouted over the sounds of blades slapping against flesh. ”Hellion, just hold on.” Annie said to her before making eye contact with the girl again. ”A mermaid? Far from it.”

Annie was no mermaid. Never was.

She was a warrior who was broken on the inside, just as much as she was on the outside.

She wanted all of this to stop, but none of it would until a message was sent.

Someone was going to die here, and Annie would not let it be Hellion.

”I aint no mermaid.” Annie pulled out another knife, the yellow one from her satchel and she looked at the girl from eight.

”Im the siren that will lead you to your doom, bitch.”

Annie shouted through the carnage, readying her knife. And with a deep breath she let the knife fly through the air, hoping to signify the difference between her from the rest of them.

Annie was here to protect.

Just like her mother would.

Annie attacks Sable Delamore || Throwing knife #2 (the yellow one)
rBATG4Pp3throwing knife
[9126 -- Deep Gash on Back -- 8.5 damage + 1 for Target Practice - 9.5 damage
(Thrown Knife)]

throwing knife

Last Edit: Nov 14, 2018 0:06:27 GMT -5 by ryan

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without roots — tumblehoes / dragged queens / blades (day 3) Nov 14, 2018 19:56:26 GMT -5

Quote

Post by jackson thomas [d6m] arc on Nov 14, 2018 19:56:26 GMT -5

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Parson failing, once again.

Fucking idiot.

I’m glad the son of a bitch is doing horribly, in my own self-surrounded way. If he thinks he’s so high and mighty, where’s the damage he should be doing?

(psst, it’s in his ass, because he’s just as much of a pain in mine)

Hearing him get called “piss boy” wasn’t any less funny. He was a disgrace to himself. Imagine thinking so highly of yourself, getting so upset that I killed 2 little mutts that you couldn’t keep your mouth shut? And here you are, doing horrible. No wonder I killed them, I’d rather rely on a toddler than your useless ass.

”Hellion, you okay?

Fuck, that was Annalise.

fuck, she asked how i was feeling.

She totally knows. There’s no way in hell that beautiful ass pirate had no clue that I loved her. But the thing is, she didn’t know that I hated it. I hate feeling abnormal. My entire life, I’ve sheltered these thoughts. Filtered them into the back of my mind and ignored it, because the ideal family was a man and a woman, not two women.

I was told that people like that, people like me go to hell. Not just because of my name, either. They thought that love was something that was structured. Boy likes girl, boy gets girl, boy and girl have kids, repeat. There was no flexibility in that schedule. If you broke it, you’re a sinner.

And that idea scared me as a child. Being told daily that my love was something inhumane, out of this world. I was an alien in the eyes of love in District Twelve; and the feelings that I felt for Annie Morrison was an alien emotion.

”Hellion, just hold on.

I was a liar to say that I couldn’t feel my time on this earth running short, and I was also a liar to avoid my feelings for so long. My horrible, sinful feelings that could never be stopped no matter how much I prayed each night that my name was not my destiny, and hell was not what I was doomed for. I was stupid to think I could flush love out, like I could take some drug and let it all go away and I had an undesirable affection for man.

She speaks again.

”I ain’t no mermaid. I’m the siren that will lead you to your doom, bitch.”

She was a siren, and she sang her song. Maybe love was real, maybe this feeling was a side of magic, as her song captured me. Took me hostage in her game. Maybe, just maybe, my love was magic, and not sin.

I give a glance at the siren protecting me, just like how I was the knight protecting my princess. This was no facade of magic, no witchery in heaven or hell could cause these feelings. Love was not something that magic delivers, love delivers itself to you, even if it’s a sin like no other.

Goddamn it, I’m a sinner.

Hopefully, not a dead one.

[attacks sable, sword]
hjl_GkVNIsword