the king and the serpent, prelude —「raf &. olly」
Mar 2, 2022 13:21:22 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Mar 2, 2022 13:21:22 GMT -5
The sepia-yellow sands of the land slowly give way to an interesting landscape.
It’s chaotic, jumbled, and quite a mess—all qualities that tell him of how this is a perfect place to hide. Away from tributes, away from whatever that prowls these lands. He has been mulling over what the gamemakers may have unleashed in the wilds too, and what with Hades at the hem, his imagination doesn’t bother limiting itself.
That’s the thing of the games: there are a thousand factors to account for, to be digested and regurgitated ad infinitum. He can’t let his guard down, that’s a plan for death. There’s always a battle to be fought, a gamble to be won. The moment one imagines themselves at peace, a trap springs up, a dagger is at their throat, a hound bites their hand off.
There are a thousand ways to die here, each one more and less equal to being shanked by another tribute.
His ears prickle when he hears it: a creak from something between stepped on. Rafael brings his fingers to his lips at his allies, unsheathes his blade. Something’s close. He steals across a mostly clean path, taking to the shadows. There. A figure amongst the scraps, humanoid. His fingers turn bone-white around the handle as they approach—silhouetted by the sun, hazy like a spirit in a graveyard, all until he steps out of his hiding place and brandishes his blade at—
“King?” he hisses, tone a mix of surprise and disappointment.
Out of every tribute in the arena, Orville King is the last one he wants to kill; Rafael would prefer leaving that to natural selection. Still, because of what—sentimentality? Tenderness towards those innocent-looking eyes?—he unsheathes his blade and pulls him aside. There’s no telling what his allies will decide to with the other, and well, Orville may have some use.
“Why are you alone?” Rafael asks with a raised brow, rather incredulously. But maybe he shouldn’t be. Orville said scant on the train, and he wasn’t exactly sociable afterwards, too.
He wipes his hand of oil-grease on the other’s sleeves. “Lay low,” Rafael says afterwards, warning in his tone. “The careers this game, they’re out for blood. What do you have your person? Anything functional? Collect, salvage, and invent.” He side-glances the place where he left Nowles and Fatima at. “We don’t want to disappoint Pryce and his wife by dying so soon. I need you alive until the finales. You hear that, King?”
Rafael’s eyes turn back onto the other.
“The Sevens cannot die until top eight.”
It’s chaotic, jumbled, and quite a mess—all qualities that tell him of how this is a perfect place to hide. Away from tributes, away from whatever that prowls these lands. He has been mulling over what the gamemakers may have unleashed in the wilds too, and what with Hades at the hem, his imagination doesn’t bother limiting itself.
That’s the thing of the games: there are a thousand factors to account for, to be digested and regurgitated ad infinitum. He can’t let his guard down, that’s a plan for death. There’s always a battle to be fought, a gamble to be won. The moment one imagines themselves at peace, a trap springs up, a dagger is at their throat, a hound bites their hand off.
There are a thousand ways to die here, each one more and less equal to being shanked by another tribute.
His ears prickle when he hears it: a creak from something between stepped on. Rafael brings his fingers to his lips at his allies, unsheathes his blade. Something’s close. He steals across a mostly clean path, taking to the shadows. There. A figure amongst the scraps, humanoid. His fingers turn bone-white around the handle as they approach—silhouetted by the sun, hazy like a spirit in a graveyard, all until he steps out of his hiding place and brandishes his blade at—
“King?” he hisses, tone a mix of surprise and disappointment.
Out of every tribute in the arena, Orville King is the last one he wants to kill; Rafael would prefer leaving that to natural selection. Still, because of what—sentimentality? Tenderness towards those innocent-looking eyes?—he unsheathes his blade and pulls him aside. There’s no telling what his allies will decide to with the other, and well, Orville may have some use.
“Why are you alone?” Rafael asks with a raised brow, rather incredulously. But maybe he shouldn’t be. Orville said scant on the train, and he wasn’t exactly sociable afterwards, too.
He wipes his hand of oil-grease on the other’s sleeves. “Lay low,” Rafael says afterwards, warning in his tone. “The careers this game, they’re out for blood. What do you have your person? Anything functional? Collect, salvage, and invent.” He side-glances the place where he left Nowles and Fatima at. “We don’t want to disappoint Pryce and his wife by dying so soon. I need you alive until the finales. You hear that, King?”
Rafael’s eyes turn back onto the other.
“The Sevens cannot die until top eight.”
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