Sub-Boards

Cornucopia Collapsed against the sand like a fallen warrior, steel limbs sprawled out in broken angles, is a massive mech suit. The closer you observe the space around it, the more signs of an intense fight that you can notice. There’s a crater haloed by a spider web of cracks on the railing just above the Mech’s final resting place. It’s daunting to imagine the sheer power of this machine, and even more so, to consider what could have been capable of breaking it into submission. Scattered across the sandy floor of the scrapyard, pooling out of the exposed parts of the suit’s torn open armor, are the items that the tributes require for their survival. Like a corpse bleeding out for eternity — this is the failure of the rebellion immortalized. This is the cornucopia. Call it a history lesson. Call it foreshadowing. The weapons are waiting for you to claim them, either way.	12	232	to dawn {talon} by Arrows Apr 24, 2022 11:13:07 GMT -5
Scrapyard - 1 Viewing The heart of this arena stopped beating long ago. In fact, though it was once likely used as a testing ground for suits of armor- the greatest and most fleeting hope of those who lived here- it now serves as little more than a rusty graveyard. The tributes may see one helmet completely concave from the sheer impact of something slamming against it, or another with a haunting stain coating the inside of its visor and a giant harpoon blade still jutting out of it. The battle dome itself is little more than welded sheet metal- the majority of which has completely rusted away, leaving mostly just a metal hull behind. What is left of the walls is littered in bullet-sized holes. Sections of the stands have fallen through, and scorch marks strewn across the parched ground. Metal cages groan in motion, hanging in the air by chains, their doors hanging open like hungry mouths inviting prey inside. And nailed above the entrance, still painted in crude letters like a proud declaration, is the name this place once called itself: Scrapyard.	23	160	gg :: 90th finale [ talon vs ellis ] by Arrows May 11, 2022 16:36:03 GMT -5
Junktown Proper It’s not a special story. Like so many other junk towns this one was once little more than a grain elevator built alongside some railroad tracks with quiet farmland rolling out in all directions. By the time the prison was built that humble wooden elevator had begun decaying in the shadow of a new one, a bundle of white cement towers that eventually became just another piece of the Wall. There’s nothing here that didn’t used to be something else. Once this branch of the railroad was shut down waste couldn’t be afforded. Gas pumps became playground equipment, traffic signs were used to patch walls, stacks of shipping containers were hacked into housing. Everything became rust. One day war finally blew a hole in the prison walls and it wasn’t difficult for the escaped rebels to seize control of a remote shanty town that no one much cared about unless life had stranded them there. No one had the means to leave as the fields withered to dust, so they pretended themselves a stronghold of freedom fighters. The most foolish among them dared to call it a safe haven. Buildings welded on top of makeshift buildings, the patchwork spires of rickety scrap metal and misguided determination still creak and teeter in the breeze, even after no one lived happily ever after except the coyotes.	16	85	Ash & Dust // [Serpent & King, Day 5] by gunner, d9 ₊⊹ 👹 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. Apr 1, 2022 21:06:13 GMT -5
Overgrown Garden If you go east on State Street (pausing to look closer, you notice the words “Withering Away of the” prominently scratched into the metal above the word State and don’t know how you initially missed it), instead of west towards the old penitentiary turned unholy lair, then sooner or later you’ll cross paths with the community victory gardens. Don’t be fooled by the tangles of sun bleached vines or the grainy black ache of sour water dribbling from the water pump. Although most of the not-so-greenery you reach out for crumbles at your touch, plants are far more resilient than people; things still survive here. This food garden for defense began as a simple vegetable patch in the town park, but quickly became a maze of family plots cluttered with handcrafted benches and an endless variety of scrap metal yard art. The fences separating each plot aren’t like the town wall — these are quaint, kitschy, inviting — and each stone in the winding paths was lovingly painted by schoolchildren. It just goes to show that once upon a time good lives were lived here, before petty squabbles of rebellion scorched not just the bygone farmland, but the integrity of countless communities so much like this one. Now only the scrappiest of plants reside in this place and the twisting in your gut tells you they don’t want you here.	15	93	walking scott street [day 5 leisure] [mylee] by heather - d2 [mylee] Apr 2, 2022 8:44:37 GMT -5
Den Just a few paces away from the scrapyard, down an alleyway littered with dried bones and dark red smears, stands a dilapidated prison building. The sign over the entrance hangs loosely on rusted bolts, teetering in the hot breeze with an incessant creak. The word ‘Sheriff’ is written sloppily in white paint strokes across the splintered board, the work of unpracticed hands. When the rebels broke free of their holding cells and claimed the surrounding town as their sanctuary, one of the first changes had been to renovate the penitentiary into something less traumatic. For a time, playing pretend that they were cowboys sticking it to the Capitol forces had been a joyful development, but it’s clear that a third and final renovation has taken place in the present. There’s something about the light here that seems more dim than anywhere else in the arena, like some out of sight cloud has placed itself securely overhead, bathing the area in a gray and dreary glow. The heat is still choking, an undertone of rotting meat traveling on the wind. The windows have all been busted out, piles of red tinted glass strewn about the sand, and even the doorway hangs open on broken hinges. Looking through the threshold, there is only darkness, and the fear of what might be waiting within. Alarmingly, it seems like the shadowy lair is the source of the rancid scent. The bones go from old to fresh with each step closer, and just a few feet ahead, there’s the distinct sound of creatures stirring in the pitch black. On the side of the building, written in frantic, bright letters, are two simple words: ‘Turn Back.’ Underlined in crimson. But if the contents hidden within are worth such a warning, then perhaps the risk should be considered.	11	56	losing more than myself {talon v. rafael \|\| day seven} by Arrows Apr 16, 2022 1:42:52 GMT -5
Junkwall The wall is, perhaps, the arena’s proudest achievement. It is the remnants of the revolution: the final stand, and the last hope of those who built it. Composed of old shipping containers and bank vault doors and sheet metal and, even in one section, a yellow school bus stood on its nose and welded into the structure. In its most navigable areas, the wall is easily ten feet wide, reinforced within by metallic beams and wooden platforms. Toolboxes and produce crates have been nailed into the walls to create haphazardous staircases which twist and contort their way all the way to the top. Parts of the wall were welded open from within, presumably for sentries and snipers. From the top, the tributes can see all the rusted remnants of the arena, which have been left behind to rot with the hope of the rebellion that began here.	12	77	SOMETHING. HOLY. by doodle :) May 11, 2022 21:49:15 GMT -5
Badlands Just over the jagged wall, as far as the eye can see, scorched earth travels on forever. The air feels thinner this high up, so hot that a fatigued tribute might find themselves suddenly gasping for breath. In the sky, visible here more than anywhere else in the arena, the sun rages with the full force of its fury. When outside of the safety of the fragile haven known as Junk Town, it’s impossible not to face the harsh reality of the situation you’ve been forced into. Even if you choose to run, there’s nowhere to go. The sand is blistering hot, miles upon miles of it, scattered with gnarled trees growing no foliage. No water in sight. This place is a death zone, absent of all life except for the terrible sound of wings flapping in the air and claws raking against sand, echoing into the nothingness like a trick of the mind. Even beyond the war, and the terrible way it ended, these rebels were doomed from the very start. Like a memory bleeding into the present, you feel that same hopelessness, too.	9	100	sent back. [day 7][oz/open] by doodle :) Apr 16, 2022 21:12:01 GMT -5
Underground Oasis There used to be a lot of arguing over how the cave system underfoot was discovered. Some people swore it was due to an attempt at mining gone horribly wrong. Others told a tale about how a boot got stuck in what was originally thought to be a simple prairie dog hole until they fell all the way through. Eventually someone ran across an opening so massive out in the Badlands that no one knew how they’d missed it; perhaps a dust storm had uncovered it. Entrance after entrance was discovered and at some point everyone forgot that the Oasis wasn’t the reason the town was built here to begin with. During the day enough light breaks through from above that the occasional cottonwood tree can thrive along the edge of freshwater pools, with leaves so green you wonder if you’ve discovered a new color hidden amongst tendrils of fluffy white seeds that drift through the air each time wind whistles through. Every branch is heavy with colorful scraps of paper and bits of glittering metal. So precious in comparison to the rusting world above, the fondest hopes and cares of an entire community are kept safe here, protected by these unexpected sentinels. This is a true sanctuary. As night falls there continues to be nothing to fear, strings of luminescent worms lighting the ceiling of this subterranean cathedral. The moss covered stones are soft enough to rest upon, like piles of quilts amongst shrines still littered with offerings and trinkets. Respected by both spirits and wildlife, these sandstone altars have remained undisturbed for decades. All are welcome here, even you.	23	83	my golden crown of sorrow [isaac] by ryan Apr 15, 2022 21:16:28 GMT -5