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wimdy
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(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

closer toheaven]] fitz & stark Jul 16, 2012 16:06:18 GMT -5

Quote

Post by wimdy on Jul 16, 2012 16:06:18 GMT -5

Every step away from the castle walls was a step from the reality I’d come to revel in.

Four friends sitting and lounging around in a fortress made for them, and only them, they were knights, and queens, and kings, defending honor and each other day in and out but still remaining in their humble abode. They’d conquered wild animals, and wild people – but these days both were very much one and the same. The walls seemed to be painted not only with the thick heavy red of their enemies – but their steady emblem and waving flag saying that this was their home, this was their place in the world made of sand, do not enter. Or it did. At one point, there was a story behind the castle, a simple once upon a time involving to fishermen, a stuttering boy, and a foolish girl madly in love. But it seemed in these Games - we were all in love. Once upon a time, they lived in a castle. Once upon a time, they lived and laughed and built hammocks together.

They experienced life.

Once upon a time, they held hands, and fought valiantly against enemies. They took monsters down with single blows, everyone grew so attached that even starfish latched onto one of their faces. The stories could have been told forever - an endless fairy tale, but there were always ups and downs and the thing that took this story, our story, their story away from the land of fairy tales, was the fact that it didn't get better. Happiness was something that seemed to last only so long. There were twenty-four kids who started with a fairy tale every year, and with four knights, kings and queens, all holed up in a castle, it wouldn't be too long until one day, at some point, a knight fell down. If it were any normal story - they would move on and forget of course, forget the knight and thrive. But in this story, this fairy tale, it wasn't a knight that fell, it was a Queen.

Penelope Libertine.

Her fragile body dancing around like a puppet on strings being thrown about - like a drunkard after more than he's even used to. Her limp body fell from the world, fell from the castle and in to the surrounding world, ready to drown and move on, but her subjects were left at ease. And that's where the fairy tale ended. Every happy story ended with something, usually it was a happily ever after, but this story, my story, Klaus and Destiny's story, ended with Penelope Libertine. We all ended with Penelope Libertine. No longer were we a happy bunch holding hands and building hammocks, we were ruthless killers - not following any particular knights code. Killed by a girl who seemingly disappeared off the face of the arena, but I know, I've watched the night sky, there was vengeance in the story. There was a redeeming moment waiting to be fulfilled, all in the hands of the blonde haired girl from District One, Stark.

Each step away from the castle was a page in a new chapter of a new story book. The story where the knight becomes the prince and then becomes the king, the king of the land. The story where the saddened King takes back what's his through the death of a killer.

Each step promised a chance that my paths would soon cross with the girl who killed the queen.

Yet it hurts, it hurts to leave the home I've built. More than the scratches and scrapes that line my arms and legs, more than the death of the 18 children, just like me who'd entered this retched place. But to begin a new story, one had to leave the last story being. Despite the memories that seemed to drag me back, like a silver string attached to every limb tugging from the castle, I had to push forward, push past the bounds that kept me holding on to the life I once had. There was a life to leave behind - I was no longer the boy who dug dirt over and over until hitting the coffins of the dead. I was no longer to boy whose slender fingers traced along their valuables, and smiling along encouraging my brothers. I was no longer the happy boy convincing my family to keep going, and smiling along. I was no longer the fierce protector of my family, both families. Because the Ripley boys were no longer my only family.

There was the queen, Penelope Libertine. The girl whose life already intertwined like a pair of dancers leaping across the stage, paying attention to every dip and dive and every line and curve. We were always already so attached together through our families. Where they asked no questions and we did our goods - or what we thought was good, there was really no good any more. Pen, the girl who stole my heart away and played catch along the sand with it in her slippery hands. The girl for whom I'd raised my hand so high and shouted, "I volunteer" for. The girl for whom I'd come into this sandy wasteland in order to protect, and like her slippery hands, slipped quickly out of my life and out of hers. Lost into the ocean, forever drowning amongst the waves. My only memory now was the paper bag rubbing against my thigh in the pocket, which had never really belonged to her, but Jude. Just another reminder of home, of my brothers. But, she was dead.

There was Klaus - the boy with the stammer, who despite how weak he claimed to be stood strong with a nine in training. Despite his stammer spoke out in what he believed in, what he believed himself to be. The boy who swung his sword and took lives but still managed to keep that switch on, the switch that seemed to totter on sanity and insanity. The boy who remained sane despite all that'd occured, even when I took his love's life. And there was also Destiny - the polar opposite. The girl who seemed so strong when she, like me, raised her hand and took her place in this game. The girl who still scored a seven in training, and held her own coming in. The girl who despite the swinging off her hatchet, lost the battle with the switch and tottered into insanity. Both of them - I'd never even said goodbye to.

When Klaus and I had once built the hammock we raced and joked and I told him that I was king, I was king of the castle and everything surrounding it was mine. I teased then - but it was time for me to become king. It seemed as though as soon as I realized that, the strings holding me back detached from my limbs and led me forward. Led me forward through the storm that threatened the skies and struck down tree by tree in the forest with it's harsh lighting.

The storm that took down my home.

The castle fell to bits in the middle of the night, after I'd found myself huddling under the tarp I'd kept all these days in my sack, with one giant jolt the whole structure came tumbling down. I'd spent days admiring how the sand, despite how small and grainy, had survived the onslaught of attacks and fights, and stood tall. But in a mere few seconds, the last chapter of my life came tumbling down behind me and there was nothing I could do. I could only hope that Klaus and Destiny had took the judgement I had and left, I can only hope.

The sky lights up with the faces and the girl from District Seven - the girl who yesterday I'd assumed had killed the kraken had fallen. Her sweet smile taking it's last salute, waving goodbye to those who remain, though I'd never seen her face in here. Perhaps in the bloodbath - and then comes the boy whose life ended on my sword and who I respected. Elon Emberstatt waved goodbye and wished me good luck. At least, I hoped. There was nothing much to be said about the deaths. It was either not a surprise or not someone I knew, we were nearing the end.

Morning came quicker than most, the sand I'd grown accustomed to and despite it's burying itself in my clothes, it wasn't unusual any more, none of this was. I was expecting to walk around and find an enemy, I was expecting to attack with ferocity until I won. I was a king now and nothing in my kingdom was meant to surprise me. Packing away the tarp back into my pack, I walked forward, it'd been days since I'd crossed the beach. The golden cornucopia whispered hello to me as I passed it, reminding me of my victory from the day I'd surrounded it. And the beach whispered hello from the District 12 girl whose life I'd first taken. Memories flooded me as I walked to the water and dipped my feet in. The coldness sent shivers down my spine, but yet I didn't move.

I saw her and gulped. I was a king - I was not meant to be surprised. I was a king - and yet as the blonde girl walked towards me I could feel the butterflies furiously attacking the insides of my stomach beckoning to escape, and clawed at my stomach line until they could manage that. The girl who killed the queen approached with a hook in hand.

I was scared. I was determined. I would kill her for the queen.

"Hey bitch." The words stammered from my mouth in an almost muffled scream. The swear seemed unnatural and weird from my tongue yet after days of torture, it seemed almost necessary. I grip my harpoon in my hands, ready to fight. She'd killed the queen and she would die for it.

[/COLOR]

OOC: So so so sorry Aya! I had summer school and I forgot last night!

Also, graphic cradit to Ella/Tattle <33[/size][/blockquote]

Last Edit: Jul 17, 2012 16:05:10 GMT -5 by wimdy

aya
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

closer toheaven]] fitz & stark Jul 17, 2012 18:46:05 GMT -5

Quote

Post by aya on Jul 17, 2012 18:46:05 GMT -5

Any dolt with half a brain
Can see that humankind has gone insane
To the point where I don't know if I'll upset the status quo
If I throw poison in the water main

Stark Harper —

[/i][/color]

The anthem the previous night had revealed the death of the two remaining lower-district characters, which brought the arena total down to six. It was about damn time. As much as Stark enjoyed all the combat — with humans, at least — the Arena was starting to wear on her. She'd fought more mutts than people, and the sand was really starting to get annoying, the way it creeped into all of her clothing, into her wounds, into her mouth and her bag and her food, sticking to the blood on her hands and face and weapons. Ditching her shoes on the first day had been one of the greatest ideas she'd had so far, she was certain, as it saved her from having to deal with sand perpetually grating up against her soles and ankles and always between her toes. Sure, as it was, sand had coated her feet enough to essentially serve as a second pair of shoes, but that came off in the water no trouble. Not that she'd gone swimming since that shark had devoured three of her fingers.

Knowing the way the announcers must be describing the Arena bothered the career girl more than the army of sand that had coated, at some point or another, practically every tribute that stepped off of their plate. "Get ahold of those palm trees, Claudius!" she mocked, pretending to be both of the famous commentators. It was astonishingly easy for her to get in character, considering how intently she'd studied the Games from home. For an added touch, she smeared some of her own blood — which had seeped out of her forehead bandage — into her hair; her blonde, salt-stiffened, shaggy head soaked it up like most victors did alcohol, turning her head a muted scarlet. "I must say, this year's tributes certainly got a stroke of luck with the arena. What a paradise!" She pulled out the coconut to be her Templesmith, and nodded it up and down, as if it were speaking for the other announcer. "Oh I wouldn't mind taking a vacation there myself!"

She carried on for a number of minutes, asking what the Coconut thought of the storm tearing down the castle — the large rumble the previous night had caught Stark's attention, though she'd taken advantage of the water and the sand's cohesion to build a snowman out of sand — and finally getting to opinions on other tributes. Stark, of course, had run a risk-analysis on everyone the day of the feast, but that didn't mean she wasn't up to hash through the remaining handful once more. "You know, Claudius, what's really quite interesting to me is the districts that are still represented — did you notice that they're all from the top four? Yes, I know, it is very intriguing. Perhaps with only six tributes left, the alliances will be turning on one another soon, don't you think?" She laughed into the wind, tossing her coconut into the air and catching it, just for the sake of having something to do with her hands.

"So what do you think of that Ripley fellow? He certainly seems like a bit of a loose cannon to me at this point — he volunteered, after all, and he seemed quite shaken when his district parter was struck down, don't you think?" Stark couldn't help breaking character for a minute to cackle at the memory of her kill. It was such a well-placed blow, knocking the girl clean out of the window from the shock of it; her hook had gone straight through Penelope Libertine's eye socket, bringing down the tribute Stark had seen as the biggest competitor in the Games at the time. "Oh yes, you're quite right, his allies will be ones to watch as well — that Claws certainly has some fight in him indeed! He's definitely proved his nine in training. On another note, do you think Moreno will do as well as his brother did last year?" She eyed the coconut incredulously. "You're quite right, he doesn't seem to have the same… spunk that made Reyes so popular — though clearly, he can fight, or else he wouldn't have made it this far!"

She collapsed in the sand, indifferent to how it clung to every inch of her, how it stuck to the blood in her hair and the sweat that soaked her clothes. Although she was growing bored of the arena, Stark wasn't by any means giving up — if anything, it meant she needed to try harder, to end the Games sooner. Maybe it was the blood she'd lost the day before, but Stark felt giddy — happy, even, if that was feasible for her. The rain continued to pelt her, but she welcomed it, let it fall into her eyes, her wounds, her open mouth as she laughed soundlessly. For nearly an hour she lied there, until her high wore off and she deemed it prudent to stand. Digging her hook into the ground, she rose somewhat gracelessly, not being able to rely on her right hand for much support to push herself off the ground. She scooped the coconut up in her sack, threw it over her shoulder, and made her way to the coast.

It wasn't very long until she spotted the very person she'd been itching to run into: one Fits Ripley. In truth, Stark wasn't entirely certain why she had such a strong urge to fight him — perhaps for the prestige of wiping out an entire district, as Julian Bryze had done with District Eight the previous year, or perhaps because she just longed to be cruel, to torment him and gloat about her murder of Penelope Libertine. He spoke before she did, his voice sounding somewhere between nervous an unhinged, greeting her from where he stood, several steps into the water: "Hey bitch."

Though it was meant to be an insult, Stark took it as an average greeting, as a compliment even. She flashed him a faux-polite smile: cold, laced with poison, tinged with malice. Her feet carried her down the shore, taking a step, then another into the water to join Fits. It was neither cold nor warm; Stark barely felt it as it lapped at her ankles as though it were breathing. Inhale, exhale. Waves roll in, waves roll out. It didn't matter that by choosing to meet him where he stood, out here in the ocean, she was giving the boy from the fishing district a distinct advantage; she already had the upper hand of a level head. This fight wasn't personal for her the way that it had to be for him. Not wanting to seem impolite — or, truthfully, interested in destroying the boy's focus even further — Stark responded casually, calmly, as though catching up with an old friend she hadn't seen in forever. "Hey loser." When Stark Harper smiles, it is impossible to see anything but a snarl. "How's that girlfriend of yours doing? You know, I found that harpoon of hers —" she nodded her head, gesturing at the spare weapon that she'd strapped to her back with the cummerbund she'd picked up in the bloodbath "— and, gee, I just hope she gets it back. It's never a good sign to have someone without a weapon in the Hunger Games. Do you think, maybe…" Stark paused in mock thoughtfulness before she continued on with her speech of mock concern. Each of her sentences was far more patronizing than the last, and she made certain that her intonation showed it. "Do you think you could give it back to her?"

She punctuated her inquiry with a leap, with a southpaw swing of the hook that had seldom let her down in the arena, with a splash as the water received her leading foot again, and with the vicious snarl that tended to characterize the blonde girl's countenance. It was always plainly apparent when Stark Harper meant business.

[attacks Fitz, gaff [spear]]
[dice=200+3000]
[Deep Gash on Stomach — 9.0 damage]

[/blockquote][/size][/justify][rand=2132780693937093133366246242076161654892077203845413823479320854]

Last Edit: Jul 17, 2012 19:40:48 GMT -5 by aya

{characters}

certified kindergartener
stranded in "beach" "city"
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wimdy
Capitol Resident

1,014 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Feb 14, 2021 19:20:55 GMT -5

(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

closer toheaven]] fitz & stark Jul 17, 2012 19:55:34 GMT -5

Quote

Post by wimdy on Jul 17, 2012 19:55:34 GMT -5

This was a long time coming.

This battle between myself and Stark, from the moment she let loose her strong hand upon Pen, from the moment she landed the gaff she holds dear into her eye and let her die, this moment has brewed between them. Two days ago - the day I'd lost her, every waking second had been filled with thoughts of the Queen falling through her glass window, the queen dying, Pen, the girl I'd come to protect. And I hadn't, I hadn't won, I hadn't saved her, and the only thing I could do now was avenge her for her death, by killing another.

But this game was all about that. I'm sure that if Destiny had any idea who had killed Pan - she would have ran tirelessly about this arena until her hatchet had sunk deep in to his or her heart, and made sure his killer was dead. And Klaus - well, if we ever met again, I'm sure he would take his sword and effortlessly plunge it into my stomach for what I'd done. I'd killed his love - and abandoned him, left him and Destiny for dead. This game was about vengeance. We all made friends - through that small ball of hope that lingered in each of our hearts. They would latch on to other's hope, and we'd all hope together. And that's what we were, my second family, a giant ball of hope. Hope that one of us would make it home, and one of us would take the crown and live on without the others. Or take the others hope and learn to survive.

Stark had killed Pen. I want to kill Stark. The only thing that seemed so incredibly lucky about all of this was that Stark had no one. Her ruthlessness and her refusal to even try and care about anybody had landed her lonely and without any sort of important hope. Her only ally had fallen alongside Pen at the feast, and she didn't even look upset. We don't have mirrors in here, but if I did and looked upon my tired face, I would know that the death of Penelope Libertine had affected me so deeply that it would show in my eyes, in the twitches of my mouth, in every pore of my being. And yet - here she stood tall and proud and without any sort of hope to latch on to. All she had was the hope she'd taken from Pen with her Gaff, and I wanted it back.

The water tugged at my feet, not violently, not enough to pull my under and make me drown. It seemed to be calling out, whispering soft words to me of reassurance. "Should you die, she will be waiting for you under the waters." The tug and pull of the bright blue ocean whispered words to me. Being from District Four I'd seen water all my life, my life was the ocean, surrounded by it and dominated by the culture it brings and yet I've never found the soothing voice that I do now as it tickles at my ankles. Never has the ocean been a force in my life that affected my very being. But yet, it was fitting for this, this tug of war between Stark and I. That should I win, the ocean would be my friend, the ocean had helped me win and helped District Four bring home food, and helped the Ripley's in them never having to push their shovels through the cold dirt at midnight any more. And should I lose - should I die, the ocean would sweep my away, with Pen, with the Queen. We'd float through the ocean endlessly.

"Hey loser." The snarky girl approaches and smiles atrociously. Like a mugger in an alley she exudes confidence through every flick of the wrist, though she looks battered and beaten with scratches lining her. She had been beaten down just like the rest of us - despite what she seemed to show, Stark wasn't invincible. None of us were.

Pen, she mentions Pen. It crosses her lips like a snake seething, and she teases her way through my mind. She's dead, she's dead, she's dead, that's how she's doing and you know that, you know. The harpoon sticks firmly to her side in a cummerbund very similar to my own. The matching harpoon that she'd also gotten on the first day. The weapon that held her hope and held her soul. What she'd taken from the Queen. She's dead. She's dead. I've never repeated this so much in the two days that she's been gone, but it seems so fitting. The water steadies me and gives me strength - she was going to die.

In the moment I pause to take a breath, preparing for myself to let loose, the cold metal of her hook pierces my stomach. The pain in instant and screaming, as if I was sure to die then and there with no chance. As soon as it enters, it leaves again leaving a giant open wound, another tear in my t-shirt and an even greater thirst to kill the blonde-haired snake than before. I stagger as I move forward, the pain affecting me already, yet there's hope again. The hope that no blade can get from me until my heart stops beating. Hope that keeps me staggering forward towards her. And hope, that the girl the killed Pen would die.

"I fully intend on giving it back to her."

[/color]

[Fitz attacks Stark - harpoon.]
[dice=200+3000]
[ Deep Gash on Forehead - 9.0 damage]

Graphic credit to Ella/Tattle.[/size][/blockquote][rand=9234979567117989589605241082608753530105086974831720230099745095]

Last Edit: Jul 17, 2012 19:56:10 GMT -5 by wimdy

aya
Administrator

6,261 POSTS
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"GUNNERRRRR~"

closer toheaven]] fitz & stark Jul 18, 2012 23:27:34 GMT -5

Quote

Post by aya on Jul 18, 2012 23:27:34 GMT -5

Listen close to everybody's heart
And hear that breaking sound
Hopes and dreams are shattering apart
And crashing to the ground

Stark Harper —

[/i][/color]

The danger in her taunts, as Stark had not quite foreseen fully, was that the sort of unbridled rage that forced someone's actions to become erratic and his accuracy to tank was the sort that also tended to lend itself to an above-average amount of power — the very power, in fact, that Fits Ripley used to rip the old bandage off of Stark's forehead completely, crisscrossing the wound that the crococonda had given her yesterday to form a wide, asymmetrical X. She snorted at the effort, amused by the symbolism the two thick gashes generated, amused with the blood that she couldn't quite seem to keep out of her eyes. It probably wasn't normal for the serious, no-nonsense career girl to chuckle the way that she did; her laughter rang with the tones of condescension that were reminiscent of a trainer watching the youngest group of future-tributes — the six or seven-year-olds, perhaps — continually fumble with their training knives until one of them finally managed to draw and throw one in a fluid motion. But the girl hadn't been acting precisely normal as of late, which she chalked up to boredom.

Even the salt in the humid ocean air bit at the two wounds that intersected on her face. In her previous experience, an x over someone's mug shot meant that they'd been terminated, that they no longer posed a threat, that they were dead and gone, no longer adding to the scourge of humanity. She knew what they were saying in the Capitol: perhaps this marking is Stark Harper's black spot — her death sentence — and what a fitting wound to end such a strong competitor! Somewhere, someone would get to trace an X over the very spot the two gashes occupied on their play-at-home scorecard, to write off the girl too early simply because they loved the underdog story of Fish Ripley avenging his district partner. It disgusted her to think that, in these peoples' eyes, she hadn't yet proved herself, hadn't shown what she was capable of at all times. But then again, all Starks — even the bloodied, savage, stir-crazy Stark that stood in the water, snarling fiercely, with a hook in hand that dripped with Fits Ripley's life — enjoyed having a challenge, enjoyed an occasion to rise to, and, above all, enjoyed proving to people that they were stupid, worthless idiots.

More fittingly, she decided, that her X fit the arena theme, designating what lie beneath it as treasure at its finest. She was, and had always been, the rogue these Games, the scoundrel and scallywag that swooped in as she pleased to wreak havoc and force the Gamemakers to fire the cannons. Did that not make her the pirate that the Capitol had clearly built this arena for? Did that not make her the rightful heir to the victors' crown?

Heir was a terrible word, of course; monarchy hadn't been seen anywhere but books in half a millennium. All of the kings and queens and princes had been overthrown, the court jesters kicked out on their asses, the damsels in distress locked far away with no hope of rescue. No, if there was one thing that Stark had been consistently reminded — by her father, by her coaches, and, most poignantly, by the very world around her — that if you wanted something, you worked for it. There was no such thing as fairy tales, and the world wasn't simply going to spit up goodies on a silver platter for whomever it deemed most deserving. That much had been apparent from an early age; after all, members of the lower class — as Stark was but seldom admitted to belonging to, even to herself — in the wealthiest district were still lower class. She wasn't some spoiled brat rich kid that considered training to be a social event, and she wasn't some whimsical do-gooder from one of the other districts, acting so innocent, all 'Look at me, I'm from District Four, with all the little fishies and the dinghies!'

Though she came off as if everything came easily to her — and training had certainly been easier for the blonde girl than it had for most — Stark had worked so damn hard to reach the level she was at, and she wasn't about to give it up over a scratch. Symbolism was nonsense, anyhow; just because she resembled an assassinated target did not at all mean that she was down and out for the count. On the contrary, the blow had sent a surge of energy through her, rekindled the warrior that made Stark Harper. She feigned an attack, smacking at the water in front of Fits, intending to splash the saline water into the fresh wound she'd sliced across his stomach. Anything she could do to throw him off of his game — not that it was terribly difficult, considering how much of a grudge match this must be for the boy that stood in front of her.

When he'd said that he fully intended to give the harpoon back to Penelope, Stark seized the opportunity to get under the boy's skin even further. "Really? And how do you intend to do that; cremate it with her?" If someone who didn't understand the language was listening, it would have been easily to mistake her taunts for simple pleasantries, for the sort of smalltalk that would follow 'My, what weather we've been having!' and 'Yes indeed; did you happen to catch the rerun of the 56th Hunger Games last night?' 'I did; it's always nice to see some of my old favorites again!' She smirked, then continued. "Is that what you do with your dead in Four? In One, we usually bury them, but sometimes they get tossed into a heap and burned — like when we had that earthquake awhile back. Is that what they're going to do with Penelope?"

Her cruel smile took over, and it was obvious that Stark was sadistically goading her opponent in a manner that she derived great pleasure from. "Back in One, the dead tributes usually get a nice service, so long as they do well, of course. But you see, if we were from the same district, I'd worry — she couldn't even defend herself, now could she?" She shook her head, as if disappointed in Penelope's poor performance, when really it had been her own skill that took the girl out before anyone could muster a reaction. "Or do you set your dead off to sea?" It seemed reasonable, and, as she asked, Stark actually became fairly curious about the funeral customs of the other districts. She assumed places like 12 and 5 and 7 — where they had plenty of fuel — they cremated their dead; in 11 and 10 and 8 — and even the mining portions of 1 and 2 — where they worked with the soil anyhow, burial seemed likely. But as for the rest of the districts, Stark couldn't be certain.

"I can imagine that must turn up a lot of bodies in your catch — unless the tides bring them right back to shore, halfway rotted, halfway like cured meat, their eyes pecked out by the birds?" It occurred to Stark that some of the corpses might be picked clean by sharks; she feigned inspiration, and, locking her eyes on the Ripley boy, theorized out loud: "Aha! I know! You cut them up and use them for bait, don't you?"

Stark knew that she was talking too much, that she needed to get on with the fighting, that she had probably crossed a line somewhere — everywhere, really — but she didn't care at all, but she was having too much fun messing with him. How much she disliked people made it easier for her to manipulate them with satisfaction, made it easier for her to find the right strings and yank them; people were weak, typical creatures that seldom responded differently to taunting. She should swing her hook — and she would — but she needed to make one more quip. "Don't worry, though, Fish, I'll make sure that I send Penelope's harpoon out of the arena with your body." It wasn't even a threat so much as a sincere promise; after X-Marks-the-Stark tied a new bandage around her forehead, she would gladly bury her extra spear in the District Four's chest.

[attacks Fitz, gaff [spear]]
[dice=200+3000]
[miss — 0.0]

[/blockquote][/size][/justify][rand=349781440105289217869717045687141786960517056286328407362196594477]

Last Edit: Jul 18, 2012 23:28:24 GMT -5 by aya

{characters}

certified kindergartener
stranded in "beach" "city"
leader of the crystal gems

wimdy
Capitol Resident

1,014 POSTS
Pronouns: she/her
last seen Feb 14, 2021 19:20:55 GMT -5

(While On a Horse) I Met a Hot Girl Who Reminded Me of a Plant

closer toheaven]] fitz & stark Jul 19, 2012 17:06:18 GMT -5

Quote

Post by wimdy on Jul 19, 2012 17:06:18 GMT -5

The slice of victory. With a single flick of the wrist of the weakened soul, the harpoon slashed across her face painted with scars and landed another blow across her forehead. If only it had been a little lower - a flick across the throat, the blood trickling down her neckline and gurgling her final selfish words. It was a dream that seemed almost too close to becoming reality. Dreams weren't supposed to be real - and yet Penelope Libertine lay asleep in the ocean in an eternal state of drowning, until they catch her pruned body and send it home. Wrinkled and drained of moisture , one third the woman she used to be. If only the harpoon would swing the way I wanted, if only I had control of where it'd blow and land - I'd have it strike deep into her heart once more like Elon, quick and simple.

Yet, that seemed a little too nice for the fiendish pixie, what made her deserve to be ended quick and effortlessly? Her blood filled head needed to fall bit by bit, arm by arm, limb by lamb falling to the ground cut to shreds and devoured by wolves - if there was any of those in this castle paradise. It seemed all too easy to take someone's life with one quick blow to the heart, though that's the same blow that brought Pen down to the ground, and brought her dead. One quick hook to the eye and she was gone, defenceless against the snake like beast who tore her down. Defenceless - there was no one there to be her shield and take a blow for her as I was supposed to - I was supposed to throw myself in front of that hook and take it to the eye instead, but I was too busy saving myself, saving the King. There were many things I was supposed to do these days and each one seemed worse than the next - protect Pen, make an alliance, survive the bloodbath, survive the first day - survive the second day, survive the last day, live. Live for all you're worth and live for all that you've earned and lost. And this was a battle to live, for each of us.

Though I'd volunteered my life on the line to step into this arena - and many had not, many had been forced in with shackles and tears to fight to the brink of death, I still wanted to survive. Though I offered up my life, each day I've learned the value of a step, and a breath, and a kiss. I've learned the value of every single thing that everyone takes for granted, eating, drinking, living. Even pain was a welcome sensation - to feel something at all was a miracle in itself. Never had I known for someone's soft skin to dance along my fingertips and gain such a chill in my body, that it sent shock waves through every pore and into the ground around me. Never had I felt the lick of cold silver piercing my skin with a passion that only seemed to show up in fights for people's lives. These weren't sensations that one went about feeling in every day life - but in an arena, an arena designed for that only one person to win, it was a flurry of last minute emotions and last minute feelings that had never been felt before.

Maybe that's why we all fell in love. Klaus, Pen, Destiny and I. We all had our bouts flirting and touching others. Destiny had kissed the bigger boy from Nine who had showed as much intense promise in life as she had - though he was dead, and her face hadn't graced the sky yet. Klaus' eyes met the boy who's life ended on my sword, their love quick and painful - yet they still shared a kiss. And Pen and I, what were we? We held each other through intense nightmares that couldn't stop despite how happy we became - or how closer we got to going home. We smiled and laughed together throughout this dreaded hell hole, and yet we were friends. The best of friends. And this was an attachment that I'd never felt before in my life, I'd never grown this attached to someone else - and she was gone. She was ended in one swift blow. Elon was ended in one swift blow. And I can only hope for Destiny's sake - that so was Pan. All of this was quick and meaningless - yet it carried so much impact in all of us. One last kiss, one last strike, one last love, for the sake of it, if we're going to die anyways.

"No, we bury them so they can sleep in peace, away from people like you who poison everything you touch." We weren't like District One, no one was like them. We didn't carry ourselves in high regards and train rigorously with no jobs. We worked for everything we got - and though we trained and submitted careers, they were also fishermen and friends and family. We had careers, but we weren't heartless. District One was the home of all the fakest and greatest of the Games - in past years there'd been Avon, Topaz, Reyes, and despite such big names, none of them were as heartless and awful as Stark Harper. Even Topaz Ross, the girl who lived, had emotions and cared, and before me stood the girl who didn't. The girls whose eyes filled with blood, and she didn't care because it was all for the kill. And that's what set us apart - we cared. I cared. Pen cared. District Four may represent themselves with Career-like tributes but we cared. "We take care of our own, dead or not. We're not selfish, rotten, elitist snobs."

Respect - we respected everyone and everything despite what they did. Even in death we were meant to respect those who died. And yet the Ripley's and I always put bodies back in their rightful positions. Stealing from their graves was nothing but a necessity to live - to survive. Every game out there was played to survive. Fishing, grave robbing, and these Games. All built and designed for me to go forward and live, and that's what I wanted to do, live. No one could take down the King, no one could take me down now that hope filled me - my hope, Pen's hope, even Abri and Elon's hope. Their deaths weren't meant to go to waste - and I wouldn't let them. Stark Harper wouldn't take me down. Her gaff came towards me slicing the air, the water below my feet rippling stronger as she trudged after me. With a swift sweep to the left, she misses - swinging wildly at the air. I had hope, and hope wasn't a thing that could be so easily brought down by the swift movement of a gaff.

"I'm the King of this castle, you know." I had hope. "And there's no way in hell that you will be the person who tears me down and kills me. It's the contrary really." I have hope. "You killed Penelope, and let me tell you now, I have every intention of killing you." I step forward and with one, swift, blow, let my harpoon move forward towards the awful girl.

[Fitz attacks Stark - harpoon]
[dice=200+3000]
[Deep Gash on Forehead -- 9.0 damage]

Fitz just really hates Stark's forehead.
Graphic credit to Tattle.

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Last Edit: Jul 19, 2012 17:07:07 GMT -5 by wimdy

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"GUNNERRRRR~"

closer toheaven]] fitz & stark Jul 22, 2012 1:15:37 GMT -5

Quote

Post by aya on Jul 22, 2012 1:15:37 GMT -5

I cannot believe my eyes
How the world's filled with filth and lies
but it's plain to see evil inside of me
is on the rise.

Stark Harper —

[/i][/color]

Even as the boy's harpoon cut across her forehead a second time, Stark had a hard time doing much but laughing. The pain was comparable to a splitting headache — which made sense, considering that her head was starting to appear as if it had, in fact, been split open. Blood poured down her face, staining her wicked smile. Had she been watching from some remote location, Stark would've found her own continuous grin quite unusual, considering how infrequently she indicated any sort of enjoyment. It didn't matter that the boy had sidestepped her ferocious swing, didn't matter that he was intent on sending her out of the Arena by way of the Libertine girl — with spear through the eye, that is — because Stark still had plenty of fight left in her, still had plenty of resolve, and did not give up. Not for any reason.

If her body was beginning to fail her, the career girl would be the last to admit it. Failure wasn't an option, defeat was not an option, and Stark's pride wouldn't even allow her to consider losing the fight, the battle, the war, the whole goddamn Hunger Games to be an option. Hubris couldn't be a fatal flaw if it was the thing keeping her from death, right? Even if it meant continuing to torment her opponent, fueling his rage and providing him with the strength and determination to cut up her forehead. Or maybe Stark continued to taunt Fits Ripley because she'd run out of things to do. No — she was still fighting, and still heckling him for the fun of it, because that was what she did, regardless of the circumstance of the bout.

"Didn't you ever go to school, Fishface? The dead don't sleep. They don't do a thing but rot." She circled, hook held out defensively, chuckling to herself. The boy had called her poison, and Stark had trouble thinking of the scathing remark as anything but a compliment. Stark Harper was poison. Virulent, potent poison — the kind that ruined everything it came in contact with, apparently. It did seem to sum her up quite nicely; the majority of her actions over the course of the 61st Games and even before then were the ruining sort. She'd made it her mission to wreck as much as possible, even if she hadn't quite been as successful as she would've liked, considering that she'd spent the early part of the Games — the time generally devoted to hunting down the weak — putting holes in flesh-eating birds on the pirate ship on the horizon that was barely visible through the storm. "I fancy myself the destroyer of worlds, but I suppose poison will do."

It was then that Stark had something of an epiphany. Keeping her eyes locked on Fits Ripley, she reached her right hand slowly into her bag and extracted the metal case that contained the antivenom she'd picked up at the feast two days prior. After she'd expertly slaughtered that Libertine girl and collected the case from the table, things had started to turn around for Stark, and not in a positive way. "If I'm poison," she postulated, "then I think —" with a grunt, she hurled the case with what might her chewed up right arm could muster — still enough to send it soaring over Ripley's head, where it landed in the water with a great splash a dozen yards past him "— we've found ourselves a solution."

It wasn't as if she'd need it, anyhow; Stark reasoned that with six tributes left, the Gamemakers wouldn't be sending anymore mutts after anyone, poisonous or otherwise. And if they did, she was certain that any number of sponsors would be willing to shell out another heap of money to keep her alive. With a ten in training and her record in the arena thus far, Stark knew for a fact that she was a frontrunner in the games, lacerated forehead notwithstanding. After all, the sponsor gifts had been practically been raining down on her via silver parachute all Games, and she doubted that the same could be said for anyone else. Not that he was exactly the benchmark by which all other tributes ought to be measured, but Cyclops hadn't received a single thing in the time that they were allied, although, granted, he was a little bitch.

Knowing full well that she was selfish and rotten, but choosing to discount the fact that Fits had pegged her as an elitist — she was about as far from the wealthy District One elite as humanly possible, and that wasn't about to change before she left the Arena as victor — Stark was quick to retort to his quip about how District Four took care of their dead. "Ah, loyalty," she mused, shaking her head at him, as though he was some naïve child and Stark, in her infinite wisdom, was about to set him straight. "That's cute. You know, it doesn't do you a whole lot of good to hold on to what's passed. Look at the victors, Fish; do any of them seem to be hung up on their own?"

Most of them were, from what Stark could tell, or had been at some point, and none of them were very well off for it. "Sure," she continued, "you've got Julian Bryze. Went on a spree, avenging his dead boyfriend by killing — what, five people? — who were completely unrelated to the ones from the Games before. And then you have your Emberstatts — you might be familiar, mini-Mace died yesterday. How do you think Emberstatt the elder is doing today, 'taking care of his own, dead or not?' You think he's coping?" She shook her head, as if she felt some kind of sympathy for the dead tribute's famous sibling. She didn't, of course; Stark had trouble feeling much of anything for anyone. "Or, you know what, here's a good example for you: my dear mentor, Topaz Ross. You'd think she'd've cut her losses after half a decade, but—" Stark recalled the morning discovery of her mentor's prized relic from her own Games — a sleeping bag that had been stashed under the victor's bed — session with relative ease, considering she was still drunk at the time "— there's a shining pinnacle of where refusing to let go gets you."

She shrugged, as if she'd just finished explaining the elegance inherent in switchblade, or as if she'd been instructing him on how to knit a loop stitch. The topic of attachment wasn't one that Stark had actively thought about or interacted with, particularly because Stark didn't get attached, not ever, but she wasn't entirely surprised that she had so much to say on the topic. Attachment was something she considered stupid and childish, something that other people did, and, therefore, was something that Stark judged other people for doing. Yes, there had been people that she didn't mind — Cyclops had grown on her at least a little bit, even though he'd been sort of useless at everything besides getting beaten up like a little girl; Viridian, her little brother, was a good kid, and even if he whined a lot, she still liked him at least a little bit the majority of the time — but that didn't mean that she would defend either of them, any of them to her dying breath; it didn't mean that her sense of purpose would be entirely upended when they died. Even her brother. If he was killed, she'd be more likely to see it as a personal affront more than anything else, and her vengeance would merely to be to remind whoever was guilty that Stark fucking Harper was not to be trifled with.

She'd basically tuned out Ripley's rant about killing and not dying and Stark killing and him wanting her dead, mostly because she found her own passing thoughts to be more entertaining than whatever vengeance drivel the other tribute could spew.

"The castle collapsed last night, peasant, and you might be king —" she spat at him, a glob of blood and spit and unintentionally consumed salt water sailing towards him "— but I'm the motherfucking proletariat."[/i]

[attacks Fitz, gaff [spear]]
[dice=200+3000]
[0.0]

[/color]
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Last Edit: Jul 22, 2012 1:18:52 GMT -5 by aya

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closer toheaven]] fitz & stark Jul 22, 2012 20:37:33 GMT -5

Quote

Post by wimdy on Jul 22, 2012 20:37:33 GMT -5

Desperation was slowly becoming an overwhelming feeling. With every swing of the harpoon and every side-step and launch, a little bit of energy slithered out of my soul and swam useless in to the air. There were limits to existance, in every single thing we did. There was only a certain amount of breaths someone could take before they died - some less than others. There was only so far you could run before you become so exhausted that you couldn't move any more. Each passing day in these Games had come with new senses of desperation. There was the desperation to get items - on the first day everything was about running to that golden cornucopia and grabbing anything that I could, we could as a collective group before we were attacked and killed. And from that came victory, through our hopeless want and greed for items, came survival.

Throughout the week they'd desperately scrounged for food through the castle, desperately fought off mutts. But there was nothing like the desperation that came from hopelessness. The day I'd lost Penelope. That was a hard sentence to run through the mind, it was as if already, in my mind, she'd made the switch from alive to dead. How quickly I'd become accustomed to that fact that she was no longer prancing about the living, she was a cold body wallowing in the deep. The day I'd lost Penelope, there was a mixture between anger and hopelessness. Every step was a weakened step as if I had a broken leg and she was the crutch I'd relied on. There was the hopelessness of me not saving her. I hadn't done my best to be her shield, and I hadn't even watched her as the giant fight had begun. I did nothing.

The strongest desperation that I'd felt, throughout not only this arena, but in my entire life, was the need to kill Stark Harper. It was now a necessity to go about my days. There was no way I could live if it wasn't me who took her life in order to avenge Pen. I'd spent the last two days praying in the sky that this - thing, this monsters face wouldn't be among those who's fallen because it was my job. My job to kill her, to make sure that her last act of desperation was feeling mercy for what she'd done. It was almost as if it were a gift, the gamemakers knew what I wanted and they gave it to me. The storm was brewed to ensure drama - and I'm sure this drama was what they wanted the result to be. Fitz Ripley taking down Stark Harper.

There were limits though, and I was feeling them more intensely then I ever had before. The harpoon was slowly becoming heavier and heavier in my hands as if it were growing with each little inkling of Stark's blood that dripped along the pointed tip. Each blow, though successful was adding a strain onto myself, as though this wasn't right, this wasn't the way to go about things. But in a game of death, this was the only way to go. The blood streaking down her face, staining her cheeks and nose and lips with a deep red that looked so unnatural but only marked success, this was a success beyond any that I'd thought I'd ever do. Never had I thought that I'd be sitting in an arena made of sand amongst a storm avenging a Libertine's death. Despite all the times I'd walked into the creaky shop and exchanged wedding bands for money and interacted with the unruly Libertine's, never did I think that I would save them.

What must the Libertine's think of me? Not saving their sister despite my ferocious promises? Ursula's howls must fill the District, and Nessie must be attempting to steal my soul, and Jorge, well, he was never much of a talker anyways. But despite their quirks, I made a promise that I'd save her, and I couldn't do that. I couldn't save their sister - so this was the best I could do for them. The poor Libertine's. The wound in my stomach seemed to only be opening more with each sharp movement across the shallow waters. A jab of pain came with every small step and still the adrenaline rushed through me, this was my revenge, this was for the Libertine's. It couldn't be healthy to move so much after such a deep gash and yet there was the passion behind each blow. Passion, and desperation. The two seemed to walk hand and hand these days.

Loyalty. Stark wasn't one to go about preaching about loyalty. What did the she-devil know about staying true to anybody? Was it not her who ditched her poor ally to be ripped to pieces by all of us? Was it not her who didn't even try to say goodbye. Klaus, Destiny and I had watched Pen, and mourned her. As had Mahlah and Jae when Elon was killed. Mourning and respecting each of their bodies as they kissed this world goodbye and went to live amongst the stars. The District Two boy hadn't received any respect, not from his ally at least. There was something to be said about those who didn't mourn their friends despite how temporary they may be. We all knew coming in to this that only one person would survive, only one person would escape this tropical paradise. But each of us had made friendships none the less, built hammocks and laughed together because that's what was meant to happen. We were meant to build bonds with those who came with us, and Stark, Stark did not do anything except kill and maim and mock those around her.

That is why she wouldn't win.

All the other victors had passion. Passion for winning, yes, but passion for others. Every victor had someone to look up to, who they wanted to avenge, who they wanted to win for. What Stark mistook for loyalty, was actually passion. Growing up watching the games, I'd learnt that it was friendships that kept each of these people sane. Had it not been for Dru, would Aranica Petros have lasted as long as she could? Would she not have died the first day? And without Dru, would Aranica not have given up on living a long time ago. It was the connections that kept up alive during and after the battles. It was the connections with the dead and the appreciation that live was fragile and that people could sacrifice themselves in order for you to live.

"I think you're wrong." This was loyalty, as Stark had mentioned, but also passion. Topaz Ross had Nash Harvey. Lethe had the memories of her friends. Mace still fought for Alexander in the finale. Julian fought for Midas, despite the loss of his life the year before. The never letting go was what gave each of them a driving force. Even throughout the games, people like Aenor and Seah had helped each other get along hand in hand. It was the people we met who pushed us forward. "The never forgetting is what keeps us going. Keeps us moving along remembering what they once were - and how we can keep going because who they were and how they helped us." Klaus, Destiny, they'd helped me go along each day with a brighter outlook. As Elon had for Jae and Mahlah. "Who do you have, Stark Harper? Who in this arena has made you have a passion to win?" No one. The question didn't even need to be answered, she was all alone, and that's why she would lose.

Stark attacked again, only to miss wide as I side-stepped her attack once again. Her desperation ran without passion, there was no one to push her forward, and behind me, I had three of my friends, and the light of hope from the two people who had fallen on my weapons. I had my family back home, I had the Libertine's. There was a whole army waiting and standing behind me, and she had nothing. "Have you accepted the fact that you're going to die?"

[Fitz attacks Stark - harpoon]
[dice=200+3000]
[Shallow Cut on Left Calf -- 3.5 damage]

Graphic credit to Tattle.

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Last Edit: Jul 22, 2012 20:38:23 GMT -5 by wimdy

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"GUNNERRRRR~"

closer toheaven]] fitz & stark Jul 25, 2012 14:20:24 GMT -5

Quote

Post by aya on Jul 25, 2012 14:20:24 GMT -5

Look around
We're living with the lost and found
Just when you feel you've almost drowned
You find yourself on solid ground

Stark Harper —

[/i][/color]

It had reached a point where Stark was pretty sure that she and Fits weren't jibing at each other, weren't trying to make the other so angry that they lost focus; the blonde and the redhead had legitimately lost their attention on the fight. What had started off as the sort of hateful soliloquizing that was almost expected in grudge matches such as these had somehow grown into an actual conversation. Following the shift was fairly simple so long as the blonde was ignored; Stark's voice had always remained fairly level, and it seemed as if her opponent's tone was headed in the same direction, a far cry from the stammered greeting, from his fairly obvious rage.

Now they were just having a debate. Stark had made her case against loyalty, against attachment, against caring; Ripley politely disagreed and put forth a counter-argument. He said that he thought she was wrong. Stark, of course, knew that she was right — to some extent. In the early portion of the Games, loyalty was necessity. Seldom did a tribute get anywhere without some sort of an alliance, and who wanted to be constantly on the look out for a spear in the back? Energy could be put to much better use hunting the weaklings or gathering the supplies that facilitated dominating the surrounding arena.

But loyalty beyond the initial phase was a destructive force. It warped people, twisting their motives and making the way that they justified things entirely irrational. In that respect, Stark was the simplest person to understand in the Games: she wanted the same thing that everyone else should want — victory — and would not be distracted from it by a vulnerability opened up by feelings. She wasn't passionless, as Fits Ripley suggested; her passion just wasn't rooted to another person. She wanted to win for herself, and not because she had somebody to avenge, not because someone else needed her to.

"Me." Her response was frank, certain, confident. "Who in this arena has given me passion to win, Fits Ripley?" she echoed. "That would be me." Thirteen or fourteen years of training, which Stark had taken more seriously than the vast majority of her fellow Careers did, had all been for her. Everything that she ever did was for herself, and that was how she knew that she really wanted it, that she truly desired her goal. She was passionate, yes, and had always been — but about one person and one person only: Stark fucking Harper.

So what if it meant that there wasn't anyone around to avenge her? She knew that if Fitz actually took her down, if for some reason a cannon fired for her today, that there most certainly would be someone to take up her mantle, to continue her reign of hate; there was no doubt in her mind that the boy who stood in front of her, the living representative of the fishing district, had been broken. He was now discussing and debating with her as if she was more than just the monster that had taken down his ally, his district partner, with a single swipe of her hook. Granted, he was still acting superior, but it was so hard not to in the Games, particularly at such a late stage. Everyone did it; it wasn't a distinctly Career attribute, though superiority was certainly a mannerism most often associated with Stark and her peers.

When you're dying, she supposed, maintaining the fact that you are better than everyone else is the only thing that helps. The weak, pathetic cannon-fodder liked to insist that they were better than their killer because they hadn't ended anyone — they liked to throw around words like pure and innocent and holy. If they had been the one to hold the sword, however, Stark knew that they would draw their superiority from the fact that they had bested their foe, that they were the fittest, and therefore they had survived. The most warped tributes tried to do both. They 'only killed because they had to' but the veteran career could see the boldfaced lie in such an assertion. You can fight out of self-preservation, but you don't kill out of self-defense; it didn't work like that. You could parry off attacks until you were blue in the face and never land a hit on anybody. You don't 'accidentally' lop somebody's head off with a battleaxe while they're coming at you with a spear; it didn't work like that. Regardless of how clean the kill was — and there was a drastic difference between a half dozen stab wounds and a simple hook through the eye — there wasn't a factor in the world that allowed you to claim that you were any less of a murderer.

"Dwelling only slows you down, Fishface. If you need someone else to be your motivation, then you really don't want what you're after at all. You have to win because some corpse wants you to?" She sighed, drawing her lips together into a thin, pitying line. "What a fucking obligation." She'd seen the sort of victors that too-attached tributes became. Hollow, empty, pathetic shells of their former lives. They drowned out their pain with morphling and liquor and one-night stands, destroying the body they ultimately wished had never made it out of the godforsaken arena that had taken the last thing they'd ever cared about. Their scars and wounds hung over them like a storm, their memories haunting their every action like some dreadful disease that killed much too slowly.

"Don't tell me you want to be the next sad sappy sucker, Fits. You want to live to see tomorrow, live to see the next day, live to see the day after that — for what? So you can keep living, keep seeing, keep feeling empty and regretful until you pick your poison? Until you fall into line with the rest of the fool tributes that kept fighting for someone they weren't able to save?" Her expression was stony — cold, yet almost incredulous that the boy in front of her hadn't been able to see the victor's curse. Speaking of it was, of course, taboo — after all, who liked to be reminded that the strongest among them were rewarded with more demons than anyone in the rest of the nation had to bear — but there was no way that Stark had been the only one who'd noticed the simple truth: the only position less desirable to be in than a tribute without an alliance — in all of Panem — was to be a victor with one.

"If you think that living is the best thing that you can do right now, if you really think that you'll be able to kill me —" This time when Stark swung at him, she didn't snarl, didn't scowl, didn't let her countenance betray her genuine feelings toward Fits Ripley — apathy — and didn't allow herself to falter "— then I swear to you that you'll be at my grave in six months, begging for me to come back and finish the job."

[attacks Fitz, gaff [spear]]
[dice=200+3000]
[Stabbed in Stomach — 9.5 ]

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Last Edit: Jul 25, 2012 14:22:07 GMT -5 by aya

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closer toheaven]] fitz & stark Jul 25, 2012 15:56:47 GMT -5

Quote

Post by wimdy on Jul 25, 2012 15:56:47 GMT -5

The silver hook once again took a swing at at him. Stark was as determined as ever as she swung the gaff towards him, this was no longer a silly game. It was never a silly game and yet I took it as such, the friendly banter and teasing. The swings of my spear against her forehead, they were all part of the game, avenging the death of the Queen and it felt good, all of it felt good. Each swing came with a new satisfaction of weapon against flesh, tearing the snide girl to pieces to take her down but these were lives we were playing with. The blade hit my stomach again, full force, grasping just across the other wound that had been becoming more and more of a pain. These hurt like no other, the deep wounds building up in my stomach. There would only be one victor.

Despite the friendships I'd made along the way, there would only be one soul escaping this sand castle, and they would be burdened for the rest of their lives. I fall to the sand, sticky with blood. The small grains mixing in with the thick red liquid. I no longer wanted to stand. This was a battle that needed to be done quick and soon, the small cuts were doing nothing to cut the career girl down, this was all futile. Every push of energy that I no longer have is a strain against the wounds building up on my abdomen. This whole game was no longer worth fighting. And yet there was a force behind me, pushing me to keep going.

Stark's confidence had helped her day after day. Perhaps that's why she was stronger than the rest of us. She had never balanced upon the small tightrope lining the mind waiting to snap, never had needed a crutch to stand on, not like the rest of us. Where would I be in these games had it not been for Klaus, Destiny, and Penelope. They were the crutches that kept him out of the sand and moving forward. They were what kept him up, unlike he was now. There was no strength to be found with me now - there was that ever-looming passion that filled me however. The voices of the dead - Elon, Abri, and even Penelope telling me to keep going, to keep pushing forward, to win, to win, to win. To win not only this fight between Stark and I but the Games, these silly Games and move forward in life.

Dwelling only slows you down. I'd spent nights thinking about Penelope. Her small fragile body slipping out of our desperate grasps as she whispered her final goodbye. How the promise I'd once made to her to throw my life on the life to save her had slipped through my finger tips. How every night I slept without her to hold on to. Dwelling was my direct link to her. Without Penelope Libertine's sweet words of encouragement, I'd never have made it a single day in the arena, I wouldn't have taken the cornucopia but just run, without any supplies, where would I be? It was the dwelling on my memories of her sweet voice that kept me walking and hunting through this arena, and kept me wanting to win. Because winning was no longer just for me, it was for Pen, and her family, and my family, both of them.

I will not be sad and dwell on the past, or fall in to whatever traps await for me outside of this dreaded place. I'd decided. Moving my clammy hands behind me in the sand, I push up out of my slump and rise to face the girl once more. If living was the best thing to do, I would kill her. I would kill her. "I'll take you up on the offer, Stark Harper." With a quick slash I thrust my harpoon at her once more, this was no longer a silly game, but a game to win.

[/color]

[Fitz attacks Stark - harpoon.]
[dice=200+3000]
[Deep Gash on Neck -- 10.0 damage]

The harpoon slides across her throat, and the feeling is instant. I'd killed Stark Harper. From the day we'd arrived in the training centre, I'd been afraid to even look at her. The fiesty girl had torn up the area and made us all frightened. Of the 24 tributes, she was one of the three careers of this year. Destiny hadn't been, and neither had Pen nor I. It was her, Dante, and Jae, and yet she was the most threatening, prancing about with her evil smirk. As she slashed up dummies and threw glares at each of us. Never did I believe that on day seven in this dreaded place, that I would be the one to slit her throat.

"That was for Pen." I mutter, at a near dull whisper. My stomach was starting to hurt beyond measure, the adrenaline was slowly falling and sinking away from me and filtering out the ever-growing wound on my belly. "Goodbye Stark, I'll see you in six months." Looking through her sack, I find nothing useful, some weird bizarre things, like an alarm clock that I grab for the sake of it. And a coconut, that could maybe even provide food. There was nothing in there that I needed desperately, something told me that this would be my last night sleeping in the sand.

I walk away. It was as simple as that, my feet squishing through the sand, every couple feet losing balance and nearly falling over, it isn't until the cannon fires that I stop to look in my rucksack, pulling out all the equipment I'd garnered over the past week, a tarp in which Klaus and I had built a hammock, my harpoon, my cutlass, duck tape, the tiki idol which I'd held so close to me despite the shocks I'd received from it. All of these were momentos of this life. The life that would soon be over.

I eat the plants that I'd kept in my bag, and drink the water. I don't even remember the last time that I'd eaten, let alone drank. Then I addressed the wounds, wrapping a bandage around my stomach and using needles to sew it up before hand. I use the ducktape to keep it down and throw out the rest, there was no need for it any longer, my bag was significantly lighter.

I wonder who's names will grace the stars tonight to say their final goodbyes, there'll be Stark Harper, but what other faces will appear, a brooding Jae, a sane Destiny, a stuttering Klaus, a gentle Mahlah? There was no telling what tomorrow would hold and who'd be left. But it couldn't be good.

Graphic credit to Ella/Tattle.

Fitz uses first aid for -3
Fitz uses needle and thread twice for -10
Fitz uses 5ft of bandages for -1
Fitz eats his edible plants
Fitz drinks his full, purified water
Fitz takes Wilson, and the alarm clock.

Ratmas 2012 clue 9: The one where you're glad he couldn't feel that.[/size][/blockquote][rand=517416202230379208955743117257955913809428457171028154412982985377]

Last Edit: Dec 27, 2012 1:08:38 GMT -5 by aya