with iron and blood // Semper

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with iron and blood // Semper Dec 10, 2013 11:56:44 GMT -5

Post by Python on Dec 10, 2013 11:56:44 GMT -5

Iron shackles anchored them to their eternal prison. With wrists bound, the children marched into the dimly-lit room, where yellow lights pierced eyes that were accustomed to the shadows. In the front of this line of withering bodies was Sonnet, chains clinking together as his captors led him to the other end of the room and pressed every child against the wall to keep their souls fearful of escape. One soul among them was not so afraid; as a key freed him of his restraints, Sonnet felt the flames rising in his chest, ready to burn this place into the dirt for all it was worth. Today was the day to hatch his escape plan – the day he would face his best friend in the makeshift arena. The day he would save a life rather than send it to the grave. The day he would let the sunlight blind him if it meant freedom for the rest of his life.

His plan was not elaborate, but it required dedication and careful manipulation. While this would be a day gone down in history for him, to the rest of the children it would seem like any other fight; they expected to lose a friend and gain more hatred for the sunshine boy. More importantly, to Altair today’s fight should appear to begin like all of Sonnet’s past experiences. Should he act in any way different or suspicious, Altair might catch wind of his ideas. That was a risk he could not take, so to make his act believable he would have to play the role of the robotic killer and harm his own best friend. It would be difficult and painful, but not impossible. And this was why Sonnet seemed to stare ahead with not a shred of soul left in his eyes as his shackles were unlocked and his body was led to the entrance of the arena. Even as they shoved him inside, he did not flinch. He knew better.

As he stood beneath blinding lights on display, alone in the ring with his eyes trained ahead, they removed Pepper’s chains and dragged him to the edge. Sonnet refused to look at him – just as he would avoid the gaze of all this opponents - as he was tossed ungracefully into the bloodstained matt. In his peripheral vision he caught the glint in Altair’s eyes and the twitch of his lips into a hint of a sadistic smile. He knew what he was doing, trying to destroy Pepper like this. He wasn’t sure how he discovered their close friendship (spies, perhaps), but by violently severing their bond with bloodshed he was wrecking Sonnet’s barriers and putting him to the ultimate test. Could Sonnet prove to be his greatest asset? Without distractions, would he be invincible? All he had to do was kill one kid. His best friend. His only remaining friend.

He wouldn’t have it.

The echo of metal against solid ground made him blink. A gold glisten drew him toward the floor, as did a second echo – but this time it wasn’t metal. It was something less sturdy. Further inspection showed him that there was a candleholder at his feet and a wooden club at Pepper’s. Weapons, he presumed. He had seen them before, scratched and stained with the blood of the dead. They had been cleaned of crimson, but the scars still remained. Of course Altair would demand the bloodiest battle of them all by granting him this weapon. The last time he held it a girl’s brains had dripped from its edges. The memory produced a shudder, but it did not translate properly. Instead, he swallowed the guilt and nausea and gripped his golden weapon firmly in hand.

Gong!

The signal to begin.

He didn’t want to hurt a single hair on Pepper’s head, but hesitation would induce suspicion. As the children watched miserably, Sonnet circled his opponent like a predatory lion on the hunt. He would have to pretend that this was a true fight before he sprang into action, and therefore attack Pepper with all of his might to seduce his unknowing audience. The first thing he always did was disarm his opponent as swiftly as possible. With a single lunge he thrust his candleholder into Pepper’s shoulder, hoping to weaken his wielding arm. When metal struck skin, he knew they would both feel its aftershock. Pepper would feel the sting of the injury, and Sonnet would feel the sin marking his soul.

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with iron and blood // Semper Dec 12, 2013 12:16:23 GMT -5

Post by semper on Dec 12, 2013 12:16:23 GMT -5

Pepper Rebio

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To simply say that you were scared would be a horrible understatement. You were wholly terrified, so much in fact that you were shaking throughout the night. All you wanted to do was hold onto Sonnet’s hand so that he could comfort you, but that would tip Altiar off into thinking something may be up. So you curled into the corner of your cell, dread filling every empty spot in your body; thoughts plagued your mind of the worst case scenarios, but there were only five possible outcomes: you died, Sonnet died, you both died, you both lived freely, or you both were locked back up. Was it worth risking both your lives for the sweet taste of freedom? Wouldn’t you give anything to breathe fresh air again, feel the soft sensation of grass, and live in the light? You would be leaving Salt behind, but after all her failed solo escape attempts you had received the message that, should she become free, you were not to join her. It really hurt that your own twin refused to take you along out of the dungeon, whereas all of your plans had included her. So why would Sonnet agree to help you when your sister wouldn’t? It was baffling, but you remembered all the times you spoke to him and how your friendship had developed at a steady rate. In all honesty you trusted Sonnet more than Salt (and that hurt a bit, too).

You didn’t put up any fight when they locked the shackles onto your boney wrists. Their identity was unknown in the dark but it all the same: rough movements and jerks, being dragged along even as you tripped and fell onto them. A few harsh words were spoken and you were yanked back up to your feet, receiving a quick swipe across the face from the back of a hand. A quiet whimper escaped your throat but the sheer terror of what was about to happen pressed down harder, squashing any thought of pain. (Would you be able to even stand in the arena? Hopefully you would not pass out from just the severity of the situation.) The air caught in your throat and you swallowed hard, standing on wobbling legs.

The light from the arena blinded you as usual. Your eyes squinted and blocked out the majority of it but the intensity still caused pressure to build up painfully. (If only you could just go through the entire fight with your eyes closed; you didn’t want to remember the look on Sonnet’s face as he tore you apart, or the look of sick satisfaction on Altiar’s face, or the look on Max’s face, or Salt’s, or anyone’s.) You knew that they all knew you would lose this fight (and, honestly, you truly believed you would lose). Sonnet was the reigning champion out of everyone, and every single poor sod he faced was only digging their own grave by the end of the match. He was your best – and only – friend but that did not matter inside the broken walls of the arena. No one stopped to even consider the fact that their cell was next to their opponent’s or any time they had helped each other out; minds were just as barren as the dirt ground they fought on, void of everything but lethal intentions.

When your eyes had somewhat adjusted you dared to look at Sonnet. Dread became like lead in your core when you saw that he was facing away from you, just as he always did, and it was terrifying. (Sonnet really meant you both would try to escape, right?) They removed the shackles from quaking hands and shoved you forward onto the dirt unceremoniously, where you stumbled and struggled to regain your composure.

It was more than obvious that you were frightened and you desperately hoped that Altiar had expected that from you. He knew what he was doing by pitting you against your friend (it was so bluntly obvious that Sonnet was the favorite of this match) and it hurt in more ways than one. You were not expected to be living after the fight, so what did that make you believe? That you were worthless and expendable. You had slaughtered people before, yes, but when it boiled down to the basics you were nothing and Sonnet was everything; that was why he was held in such high regards, and perhaps it was even why he was able to be happy in the dungeon. When you’re the favorite, you can expect to receive better things and not have such a miserable existence.

Two loud thuds alerted you that something had been dropped. You looked down to see that a wooden club rested in front of your feet and you hesitated. None of your fights before had started out with weapons so it was scary to think about what Altiar wanted to happen in the fight. You quickly lifted your gaze and saw Sonnet picking up a golden candlestick, perhaps even the same one you had made your first kill with. (Was that a sick joke? Giving Sonnet the weapon you had first killed with, only to have it be the weapon that killed you?) The urge to run away quickly began to make itself known but you knew the consequence of that: immediate death. What was more was that, if you did try to run, all the plans for escaping would be shot up. Would you really risk your chance for escape because you were scared, or would it turn out that he was only using you to gain his freedom by playing you for being gullible?

When the gong sounded you immediately swept up your weapon, unable to even hold it properly. Sonnet came at you, making his usual moves that you never dreamed you’d have to face. You refused to let your back turn to him so you followed his movements, struggling to hold the club steady, watching as it wavered in the air. He struck far too fast for you to comprehend and in a golden blur the candlestick struck your arm, causing the club to fall from your hand. A startled and sharp cry sounded from you as a result and you tried –honestly tried – to fight back by swinging a fist at him, movements restricted by your unwillingness to harm a friend.

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i hear the mountains calling me home

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with iron and blood // Semper Mar 4, 2014 16:18:31 GMT -5

Post by Python on Mar 4, 2014 16:18:31 GMT -5

Pepper’s yelp was a deafening ring in a room occupied by silent lips and vacant stares. The shockwaves of pain nipping at his arm were nothing in comparison to his sinking heart; he felt it shrivel behind his ribcage as the club bounced across the floor, leaving Pepper’s best offense discarded and out of reach. It was the cruelest way to start a fight and smother all hope, but for a victor it was a tool to abuse whenever necessary. For Sonnet it was to be expected, and he knew a smile would be carved into Altair’s menacing features as he observed from the shadows, perhaps nodding a time or two as his little puppet pleased him. He no longer squirmed under that intimidating gaze – however, he would have to stay consistent with the man watching him so intently. One slip up and he might realize that Sonnet was up to something mischievous.

Or maybe he would just chuckle at his own sadism, knowing how Sonnet would react to striking his only friend.

Pepper’s hesitation was evident, but the thrust of his fist told him that he was trying. Sonnet wouldn’t mind sustaining a few bruises and gashes from this fight – he was, after all, hurting his friend, betraying their bonds despite how none of this was either of their fault. He deserved to suffer for this, unlike Pepper, but the motion was too slow. If Sonnet couldn’t deflect this punch Altair would spot the restriction immediately. He couldn’t risk exposure, so he ducked away from the outstretched limb, grabbed it with his free hand and twisted. I won’t break or sprain or rip anything, I promise. He wished he could voice his reassurances aloud to comfort him, but he couldn’t. All he could do was cause pain.

Twisting his arm prompted exposure to a vulnerable body, and Sonnet could not be careless enough to ignore it. This was all deliberate, unfortunately, and as soon as the arm was within his clutches he took a bold step forward and jabbed his knee into Pepper’s abdomen. He purposely aimed low to avoid fracturing any ribs (we can’t have any serious injuries when we escape) , and prayed that the most he would do is knock the wind out of his desperate lungs. He mentally winced at his own ferocity – it was too forceful of a blow, how could he get so carried away? He needed to be gentler. Subtle, but gentler. I’m sorry, Pepper. Forgive me.

The silence hovering above their bodies was eerie. It felt like he was fighting in a graveyard, and he might as well be. He could hear no breaths but his own and Pepper’s. He could hear his heart pounding, its echoes reaching the edges of his skull. He wasn’t even tired yet, they had only just started. Altair would be having a field day on his perch, watching Sonnet pummel his friend for what the disturbed man believed was glory, unless he was cunning enough to realize that nobody here wanted glory, only survival and freedom. Face a mask of apathy, Sonnet released his opponent’s arm but did not leave him to recuperate – it would be too out of his character, because despite how much of a radiant sun he pretended to be in a scrap for survival one did not let their opponents breathe, even for a second. Even if it was his best friend.

In one swift motion he whipped the air with his candlestick and cracked it across Pepper’s jaw, deliberately avoiding anything too close to the brain. They would both need their wits about them when the escape plan was initiated – whenever that would be. The timing needed to be perfect. He had to corner Pepper somewhere near Altair’s position for everything to hatch properly, but right now his back was to their captor’s heavy gaze and everything was wrong. He couldn’t have anticipated how long this pretend fighting would last, but as seconds passed the weight of its consequences continued to dawn on him. How much would he have to hurt Pepper before they could reach freedom? What if one of them became too distracted by the illusion of battle? The fight already felt too real, too believable, especially now that Pepper was hurt. Hit me back, Pepper. Hit me hard. Please.

He waited.

Last Edit: Mar 4, 2014 16:18:49 GMT -5 by Python

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with iron and blood // Semper Nov 20, 2014 16:15:14 GMT -5

Post by semper on Nov 20, 2014 16:15:14 GMT -5

Your aim faltered. You had no specific target to begin with other than Sonnet as a whole, and with how quickly the older boy deflected the attack, he probably knew you were uncertain about the whole situation. The entire fight needed to be believable and Sonnet did not fail that objective: your fist was captured in midair and harshly twisted, body following the motion involuntarily and contorting uncomfortably. Almost immediately you knew you were trapped, unable to escape the hold, and subjected to receive a painful strike to the stomach.

Air was forced out of your lungs in a pained wheeze, and for a few long moments you couldn’t breathe in. Pain flared and you struggled to straight up in order to suck in air, hazel eyes wide, looking up at the boy who hovered above you in a predatory fashion, and Sonnet let go. The twisted hand fell limp at your side and the other clutched at where he had kicked you, applying gentle pressure to the area, thoughts for retaliation beginning to race through your mind.

You hardly had time to gain a steady breath before a tremendous force struck your jaw, snapping your head around and throwing you completely off balance. Heavily you fell, onto your side and unable to stop your temple from suddenly smacking the ground.

Sounds were muffled; agony ripped through your face and neck, erupting from the point of contact with the candlestick and ground; the arena was blurry and sideways, and even blinking became laborious. Head swimming, you fought to remain conscious, and fortunately the adrenaline of the fight kept you awake and somewhat aware. Though you were caught in a daze and borderline senseless, the first thought to break the cloudiness of the mind was that you needed to fight back.

Sonnet still hovered above and you felt like wounded prey simply waiting for a deathblow. This was only a pretend fight, and yet he was hitting you relentlessly, bringing you to the ground in hardly a minute. Not only did you realize how truly terrifying Altair’s top pick could be, but also that you were becoming scared of the boy who held your hand. (A fake fight, that’s all this is—but I’m going to die. He’s going to murder me.) Perhaps Sonnet really had fooled you into thinking you both could escape; he was the top fighter and you were just another blundering, sickly kid standing between him and freedom. If he killed every single opponent of his, he’d feel the warm sunlight, smell the flowers, taste baked food, and be completely unrestrained. Altair undoubtedly would have had something to do with the situation, and maybe freedom had been proposed as a reward after your death.

You were merely an obstacle for Sonnet.

Fear was what drove you to push your hands into the ground and hoist up. Your jaw still throbbed and the clouds slowly lifted from your hazy mind, and it was only when your fingers curled and nails dug into loose dirt that an idea struck you. Whether or not Sonnet was going to be true to his words, or possessed some ulterior motive, a very familiar animalistic sense spread throughout you, followed by a new surge of determination.

Surviving was the only thing occupying your mind and you scooped a handful of dirt, twisting quickly and throwing it at Sonnet’s face as a distraction. In the moment that the grains hit, you shifted your weight to one foot and extended a leg, swiping it hard and fast, taking the boy’s feet right out from underneath him. Hazel eyes glinted and a fire started to kindle inside of you; living was the goal, fighting was the method, and letting the inner demon consume you was the only way to cope with hellishly attacking the boy you had on more than one occasion called “friend.”

You sprung for the wooden club and gripped it with a new unwavering grasp. Weight shifted from front to back and you lunged at the boy with a sudden and newfound rage, emitting a blood-curtling cry. The club was held above your head and brought down with a ferocious might, wild and primitive instinct the sole driving force, and this time you aimed for the open vulnerable spots.