n u u u m b. [soy vs. aenor vs. seah] [day 5]

Vivacity.

The feeling flowed through him and all around him in the air, clinging to his face and arms and legs wherever there was an open spot to bite. Not three minutes into the swarm, almost every inch of Seah Storstrand's uncovered body had been violated by the little buggers, torn at until every last shred of clean skin itched and ached where he scratched. Immense creatures - compared to other mosquitoes, at least, these were abnormally large - surrounded the air around his head as he snatched his items and ran for cover.

Life powered him, and his life would continue through the night. There would be no shelter, Seah knew, even if he ran to the far edges of the Arena. No matter how far he attempted to move, there wouldn't be rest until he was exactly where they wanted him to be. The Gamemakers had done it before, and they weren't about to stop. A clear sign more than anything, throwing it in the tribute's faces despite their pain and suffering. Or, at least, everyone else's agony. The boy had been alone for the better part of three days, witnessing nothing. Little pain had befallen him since he left his alliance. To everyone else, the situation might have been an extra kick to the side, a reminder to not forget.

You're dying, you've lost others, but we're still bored.

"Sooner or later, you've got to deal with it. You'll kill, you have to realize that. Nothing will happen slowly. If they get bored, everyone will be in trouble. You'll be stronger than the rest, or most, and you just need to fight. Don't run from them, don't avoid fighting. If you search for it, the Capitol will love you. You'll be better off," his dad had advised him one long, tedious day of lecture. Did his parents care that he would die? Did they even love him? Surely they were ashamed of his decisions. Hide, run, sit on the sidelines. Seah was hardly a fighter, but maybe they had always known that. Maybe they loved him anyways.

(Maybe)

And yet he was still alive, having fled from every real battle he had contributed in. Having fought only mutts for the past few days. Had he even followed one bit of advice from his parents' coaching? Perhaps the alliance counted for something, or fighting and killing an innocent girl in the bloodbath. Then there was fleeing from the alliance, taking his items and simply setting foot away from the group. He tracked every tribute in the arena, avoided them like a contagious disease. He had fought mutts every day, for God's sake. Alone, weak, wondering when a strong beast would saunter by and off him.

Seah Storstrand was surely not a Career.

Even as he ran he could feel the weight of the sword in his hand. It was not his item of choice, but he never had a favorite in the first place. Everything seemed heavy and awkward in his hands - now, especially, that he was forced to fight with his left. The gloves covering his hands a day ago didn't help one bit when the ugly bull broke the bones in his right, and he had never practiced with the other. Though his parents were skilled trainers, not even they could have foreseen that turn of events. Not that it mattered much. Right hand or left, he moved with a sloppy kind of grace. He held onto the shreds of his facade with a smile for the Capitol, but every choice he made thus far labeled him a fake.

As dawn approached and the sun began to rise, the mosquitoes began to hang behind. First one bunch retreated, then another, then another, until every one of them was gone and Seah's skin was covered in lumps and ugly red splotches. Long ago he had passed into the land of bones, ignoring all of the sharp edges and loose tusks in the dirt. Shadows still lay at every corner, passing over the ground like real entities meant to pounce at him at any second if he stepped out of line. In fact, the place sent shivers up and down his spine, gazing at the shade and dreary bones littering the place. With every step his feet stomped old bones with unbearable noise.

A steady crunching sound between his own footsteps alerted him to the presence of someone - or something, it could have been a mutt if he wasn't inclined think about the reason the Capitol had created the swarm. Long hair first made him think of Soyala, his former alliance member, but as he turned he realized that the color was different, lighter, prettier. A small smile spread across his face as he saw Aenor, bitten and likely itching like crazy just as he was. She looked far different, more disheveled, but it was a relief to see her face. In her hand there was a sword almost exactly like his, clasped tightly by the hilt.

He might have kept smiling had the sight of her not scared him half to death, wondering if she was there to kill him. Somehow he managed to speak.

"Look, we match again," he nodded towards her sword.

Filler. Oh no, Aenor's pretty cheek.. D:
And he's nauseous at blood again.

[Attacks Soyala -- Sword]
[dice=200+1000]
Shallow Cut on Back -- 4.0 damage

That first night when August Millory's face flashed through the sky, Seah felt nothing. A hint of recognition may have passed through his mind, a realization that his sword had pierced her skin and caused her to bleed over the Cornucopia dirt, but it had given him pride. Energy. Something to smile at, for his parents might be proud. Their son, their Career, with the first kill of the Hunger Games. They probably stared at the television screen with identical smiles on their faces, perhaps nervous, perhaps biting their lips and screaming at him to kill, or yelling pointless instructions as if he could hear them and correct himself. When he killed, it had been quick. He had hardly thought about it.

Once again, when he leaned forward and swiped his sword towards his former alliance member - who was already crumbling under the pressure and blood, and was she crying? - Seah Storstrand forced himself not to care.

Not to think that he might be the death of her.

[Attacks Soyala -- Sword]
[dice=200+1000]
Shallow Cut on Left Bicep -- 3.5 damage