The Bloodbath

shrimp
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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:00:43 GMT -5

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Post by shrimp on Jun 13, 2015 8:00:43 GMT -5

Good morning and welcome to the 70th Annual Hunger Games Bloodbath, Tributes! Your Gamemakers have developed a very special Games for you. First and foremost, we would like to encourage each and every one of you to read the( rules), as it makes life a lot easier for everyone when all parties involved are aware of the rules and expectations.

#dontmakeshrimpcry

For smooth operation of the bloodbath, please be aware of the following:

(note: the following notes were posted in The Bloodbath Date Annoucement Thread, so if you’ve read that you have not missed anything)

- Everyone must make an introductory post; it doesn't matter if you've taken Stealth or not.
- You may not attack tributes who haven't made their introductory posts.
- You must, must, must wait for at least THREE other people to post in between your attacks. If you are in an alliance of four, you must wait for at least one person who is not in your alliance to post as well.
- One tribute may only be attacked six times between their attacks.
- You must also wait for at least three other people to post in between your last attack post and your fleeing post.
- You may not attack in your fleeing post.
- Please be aware that if you have a severed leg or leg part, you may not flee without the aid of another tribute, who must also flee. With broken leg or leg parts, you may flee in three posts as stated above, or you may be carried out by an ally as well.
- Once you flee, you may not re-enter the bloodbath.
- "Generic Attack Posts" are completely, positively, 100% prohibited in the Bloodbath. All posts must adhere to site standards.
- Stations are not valid during the Bloodbath, except First Aid upon fleeing. This means self defense, blades, etc. will take effect after the tribute has left the bloodbath. The same goes for any sponsored items.
- For the 70th, please be especially aware that we will be frequently locking and unlocking the thread. It is YOUR responsibility to check the cbox and the( Games Engine) to determine which tributes are available to be attacked. Gamemakers will post when the thread is locked, and when the thread is once again unlocked, to timestamp each event.
- All dice codes must be immediately obvious, even if you are using a table. Either put it beneath the table entirely, or make it easily accessible. If we have to scroll within a table to find your dice, the attack will be completely nullified and you will not be able to pick up an item. If you are in doubt, do not use a table.
- Additionally, please make sure that you specify who you're attacking. When you're finished, for the sake of convenience, please edit your post to include the corresponding attack. Include the TRIBUTE NAME, and NOT the owner's name; for example [attacks Mace Emberstatt] is valid; [attacks earthling/Kay] is not.
- Only weapons may be claimed from deceased tributes (by his/her killer). Any other items picked up by a deceased tribute prior to his/her death will be put into the Wealth.

ANY violations of these rules will result in an additional 8 damage dealt to the offending tribute.

Each tribute's damage will be updated on on the Hunger Games Engine, so pay attention and don't forget to refresh the page!

Tribute item lists may be found here

To clarify, the Wealth also includes any unclaimed items, as well as the items of dead tributes. The exception to this would be weapons, which can be claimed by the tribute's killer following his/her death. You must be one of the first 18 tributes to post in the Bloodbath in order to be eligible for the Wealth. If your alliance has 3 or 4 people, two members of your alliance must be one of the first 18 tributes to post in the bloodbath.

Today's Weather
Cloudy with a chance of murder. 2mph wind. Temperature: 65F (18.3C)

Tribute Uniforms
- A leather, thigh-length jacket. It is a zip-up jacket, the buttons are for show/decoration
- A twill vest. Each tribute's vest is a different color, ranging from muted browns to warm grays, cool grays and black.
- A white, button-down cotton shirt
- A leather belt with this belt buckle. Said belt buckle also has the tribute's district on it.
- Dark-colored jeans, ranging from grays to dark blue
- A pair of socks
- Leather Boots

The Bloodbath will end on the 16th of June. Anyone who has not posted in the Bloodbath by then will be killed, as always. Day One will conclude Saturday.

five
four
three
two
one
…
[GONG]

Let the 70th Annual Hunger Games begin!

cachi olentzero | 10b | tribsi
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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:03:27 GMT -5

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Post by cachi olentzero | 10b | tribsi on Jun 13, 2015 8:03:27 GMT -5

You don’t know me, you can’t hold me. I’ll slip through your hands, I am one single grain of sand

I am scared. I have no mentor. No allies. I have no help in this world. My mind is focusing on being the bad little Lily I need to be to even try to survive. I wish I could be myself and survive, but a weak little girl won't survive at all. I already have no chance of surviving with people like the big bad wolf with an eye patch covering a disaster that I have yet to see. I expect I will see the wolf beneath the eye patch though soon enough. I am about to be lifted up to my death. My most certain demise is looming above me. I am terrified, and all I have with me is my stylist, who is no help saying how lucky I am to be here, about to be famous. Famous for what though? My death.

Who should be lucky for dying? I guess my stylist who wants to be. A voice goes over the speaker saying we will need to get on our plates in ten seconds. I don't care. I step onto the plate and set up my costume for act two scene one. I narrow my eyes and think of Preston. My handsome, wonderful brother Preston who I love so much. I will never see him again. That realization had hit me when I left him back in district eight for the last time. I let me final tear drip down my face, out of my eyes, before I am lifted up.

I wipe the tear from my cheek as I am lifted up. A blast of heat and blinding light hits my face and I see the cornucopia. It looks like a gear and I am on one of the things coming off of it. We don't know much about gears in district eight, except for the ones in the factories and the ones on district three's symbol. The countdown starts and I look around. I don't know what I will go towards. Most likely away. No. That isn't the bad Lily thinking. I need to think like the bad little Lily.

Before I know it, the countdown is almost finished.

10...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...

The gong sounds and I start to run. I start to run towards my most certain death. I let my inner Bad Little Lily control me, and I enjoy it.

Words: idk
Tag: no one
Notes: (Lily enters the BB)

Thanks to ❥Megz of Adox and GS

✨ zozo.
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bloomtodeath

The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:19:36 GMT -5

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Post by ✨ zozo. on Jun 13, 2015 8:19:36 GMT -5

[rowan combe]

I can feel my heartbeat in my throat - bang bang bang bang bang bang bang - it rises as I do.

Wake up. Wake up. Bang bang bang bang-

I didn't sleep last night, avoiding the nightmares. Yet here I am, poised on a plate ready for slaughter. The real nightmare is here and I can't run away from it. I can't wake up. My grip on reality catches, taking in my surroundings, more and more of us rising to meet the same fate. Dirt. Yellow. A giant cornucopia. No trees for miles - I am not home. I wonder if I will ever return. By the looks of these hungry faces ready to hunt me down and eat me alive, I doubt I will.

Bang bang bang bang bang bang-

I close my eyes. My heartbeat still pounds on. I imagine a soft breeze, drink in the smell of the earth, think of nothing but green all around me. Trickles of rivers and skeletons of leaves. Calm and yet dancing on the edges of fear. There are no wolves here. No hunters or monsters. Just 23 pairs of eyes anxious and eager and petrified. I wonder if they're thinking of home. I wonder if they slept at all last night. My nails are brittle, my skeleton weak, my eyes dragging down to the depths of my skull and my heart still won't stop echoing through my head. I wonder if they're scared. I wonder if Gavin-

I need to let him go.

But I can't. He is everywhere. He came here. He died here. His essence falls through the air. All of his lasts belonged here. Last meal. Last laugh. Last words. Last kiss - my fingers find my lips and all of a sudden I am pulled back to a memory I thought I'd moved past and there is salt water coating my cheeks and I realise that I am terrified of this arena, but more terrified of letting him go.

Bang bang bang bang bang bang-

I wipe my face quickly with the back of my trembling hand. I must let go. I must at least try to fight - I owe him that.

There is no banging. Only a heart that is tired of fighting, of longing, of mourning and wondering.

There is only a gong and my instinct to run.

[rowan enters the bb]

“and men said that the blood of the stars flowed in her veins.”

D3f Kiena Ward [Trib-sitter Ro
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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:20:33 GMT -5

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Post by D3f Kiena Ward [Trib-sitter Ro on Jun 13, 2015 8:20:33 GMT -5

don't ever look back
on the world closing in
be on the attack
with your wings on the wind
oh, the games will begin

When I open my eyes, I expect to see a rusty ceiling. I expect the first rays of dawn filtering weakly through a grimy, cracked window. I expect to hear the ticking of the clock and grinding of the gears, the symphony by which I’ve lived for so many years now. Instead, a too-smooth, too-white ceiling comes into focus. It’s still dark out, but when I lift myself up onto my arms I see bright pinks and oranges staining the horizon to mark the oncoming day. The colors are too vivid, too bright, and I’m almost certain that they’re projected. How else would the stars still be glittering above them? I turn away from the false sky, frowning, and swing my feet down to the floor. Instead of cold metal that groans even under the weight of a half-starved girl, my feet curl into plush carpet. My fingers fumble for the pocketwatch on the table near my bed, clutching it tightly. It looks grimy and out of style in comparison to the bright green vase and fake flowers that also sit there. I almost expected to stain the smooth mahogany. I feel the sudden urge to do something - clean the gears, tighten the mechanism, check the time. But there is nothing here for me. No clock tower. No drunk Uncle. No rust, no harsh metal, no grime or grit or smoke.

For the past week, this has been my nightmare.

I’m already dressed by the time Sparky finds me, her lips pursed in their usual way as one green eyebrow arches up in disapproval. As if I wasn’t supposed to do something myself, or think on my own. I guess when I do that she thinks she’s lost her purpose. Today I can almost sympathise, because I know the feeling. But then I remember that she is taking me to die while she watches from the safety of her own home (strange, to think of her having a home. it seems like her home is with me, constantly). Suddenly, I wish it were Klaus here instead. At least he’d be able to relate a bit more. I brush past her without a word and she follows, directing me down long hallways and down the elevator and eventually into a hovercraft, where I sit quietly and refuse to eat. I’m not hungry, anyway.

The dress me wordlessly, but I don’t think it’s because they’re sad. I never did get very attached to J or her little flock of makeup artists and tailors. They’re too exact, too eager to rid me of the grease and dirt that made me what I was back in Three. There was a time, once, when I was invisible to the world. I was a rumor, but the kind that was only mentioned once and forgotten. No one cared to know about me. Now all of Panem knows my name, and it bothers me that these people mean to use that as their own key to fame. They want the world to know that they were the ones who dressed the corpse so prettily.

The time seems to fly by, and suddenly they’re ushering me toward the great tube that only leads to nowhere. Fascinating, really, how they manage to make it work with such limited space. Too showy for my taste, though (things here always are), and somewhat impractical. As I step on I’m struck by the sudden fear that I’ll lose my balance once the protection of the glass falls away.

Then I feel somewhat foolish, because when entering an unknown Arena filled with twenty three other tributes, that’s what I choose to be afraid of.

My fingers grip the pocketwatch so tight I’m almost afraid they’ll snap off as the plate begins to rise. J is already turning away from me, tapping away in her high heeled shoes, and I’m left looking upward toward the sky. I can just barely make it out, squinting against the harsh light, but it gives me comfort somehow. (Once, I wanted the sky to myself. I thought I could weave among the stars. I thought I could sail through clouds. I was very, very wrong.)[ Then I remember that the sky in here is just a projection, like the sunrise, and my heart aches. One hand reaches to brush against the moving glass, almost as if trying to steady myself with the feel of it against my fingers, and for some bizarre reason I want to close my eyes as the plate finally rises above ground and clicks into place.

And then my heart nearly stops, because in the distance I see something so familiar it makes me want to drop to my knees and weep. A clock tower. Without my permission a strangled squeak escapes me, and I nearly lose my balance. (I suppose it was a valid fear after all.) My eyes sweep past it, taking in the Arena they’ve constructed, and my chest feels unimaginably tight. Is it a joke? An illusion? But no, the other tributes see it, too. A few eyes even dart toward me - I can feel them, shocked enough to break the tension that usually keeps the tributes from looking anywhere but at the bounty of items before them. When my eyes catch on the Cornucopia I regain my focus, lips pressing into a tight line. This is a coincidence, and a pretty damn good one. How the Gamemakers kept it to themselves, I have no idea. This is an advantage.

This Arena is mine.

The gong rings, just in time with my watch, and I run.

against all the odds
against all your pain
your back's on the wall
but no one to blame
oh, wild hearts won't be tamed

Avalon
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when i plant a fat ass cracker bitch i expect her to stay planted

The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:20:45 GMT -5

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Post by Avalon on Jun 13, 2015 8:20:45 GMT -5

☽ 70TH HUNGER GAMES ☾

S U M M I T

oh, two hundred years of war
fight till we are no more
a curse on the streets of gold

The memories were coming towards me. Violently. Urging themselves deep into my mindset, trying to drag my focus away from what’s to come. Oh, how I wish I could escape into a better place. A better world. One that screams paradise at the top of its lungs at me, one that promised me more tomorrows. One that promised me that, with time, the past would become but a distant, vague memory. And it was all I wanted, nothing more. I wanted to forget, and with forgetting came forgiveness. And while I once forever told myself I couldn’t possibly forgive, I couldn’t possibly forget, perhaps it’s the right time to.

You can go through life stubborn, unwilling to let the troubles sweep by. You can go through life holding onto the grudges that mean so little to you anymore. You can go through life, and die, holding those said grudges to your grave, like you had promised yourself. Perhaps. Perhaps it’s time though. Perhaps it’s time to forgive and forget all the troubles and their makers in the past, and leave it all behind. And it is bad, so bad. It is so bad to hold onto the troubles that lie nearly dead, hoping that the creator would suffer some cruel pain or something brutal would happen to them. But for me, I was selfish. I held the troubles near dear, and while they lie beyond dead, under a grave, marked with the last name “Summit”, I held onto them.

Perhaps it’s time to forgive and forget.
I don’t have much time left.
And to forgive my father was something I would eventually have to meet ties with.

And while the pain can never be numbed completely, out of sight and out of mind, it was something I had the control over. I could continue to live day by day, alone in a room, four walls surrounding me. And in those four walls would be a window. Just a simple, grime and dust covered window, with nothing more to show me than a glimpse of the future. And in those four walls rests a lone door. Just a simple, wooden, locked door with its only handle missing from the knob. The newly formed peephole would show me nothing more, than just a glimpse of the past. And I am caught. Caught. Caught between the future and the past, but this was certainly not the present, you see. I was put at a halt along the lines of a completely different spectrum. And while I could simply kick the door down, or break the window to unleash the pasts and futures into the room, I’m not strong enough. Or so I think.

"Stella—"

"Yes, auntie?"

"Stella. Promise me— promise me you'll come home?"

"I— I can't"

"Stella, we need you... I need you. Please, just promise me."

And the memories. The memories come flying at me, and what threw me off was how vivid they are. The words that slipped from her mouth so easily were still painstaking for me, even until this moment. A simple"I promise" would go ways and ways for her, something she would love to hear in her benefit as a token to understanding that I was fully capable of doing something of such sorts. I couldn't have promised her absolutely anything. A promise to her is a lie to me, and I already knew I wasn't capable to come out alive. If I were to pay her a clean penny from my pocket of fabrications she'd be set for life knowing that I would come back to her one day, but matter of the fact is I most likely am not. It is better off to consider me dead now, and not expect me to come home.

But there’s truth in that fact.
I will be coming home, without a doubt.
Whether it be alive,
Or in a crate, marked “Stella Summit. District Seven.”

“I can’t— I can’t do that… I’m sorry auntie. I’m sorry.”

“I love you, I can’t wait to see you when you get back!”

“I love you too, auntie— I’ll miss you—”

And I couldn’t wait for that moment. I couldn’t wait to have her hold me in her arms again. I couldn’t wait to rest my head upon her shoulder, the scent of gardens and orchards sneaking up into my airway. I loved it almost as much as her, she’s truly my favorite thing that could possibly exist in the world. And I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t wait to cry into her shoulder, the array of watercolor pattern of floral print streaming down her. And when I look her in the eyes, my tears rushing down my face, creating trails that didn’t stop until they slipped off my jawline. My mouth open slightly, my words soft and I whisper just to the two of us—

“I did it”

The idea is farfetched, it truly is. To battle the odds, against twenty three other tributes, those with the same exact motives to get to home, just like me. It is unlikely, but it’s not impossible. Nothing is impossible if you put the right mindset to it, and with that comes action, not just the right thoughts. If killing is what it takes to get home, then it is what I shall do to make it home. The idea would have disgusted me not even a week ago, but standing here, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It was do or die. Fight or flight. Win or die trying. And to get out of here, one must be courageous. A burning fire ignited within, and it couldn’t simply be stomped out.

It is here to stay.
And so am I.

Three—

Two—

One—

And once the gong sounds, I find myself taking off for the Cornucopia. If fighting is what it takes, then fighting is what I shall do.

just know
that mine is a hand to hold
take back what the kingdom stole
a curse on the streets of gold

[Stella Summit has entered the Bloodbath]

"solitaire something you consider rare"

credit to zoë

Deleted

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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:12 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:12 GMT -5

N O A H

It's breathing rust - the last few seconds being alive. (It's not just breathing, it's terrifying, it's wrecking and rapture and everything in the mix and it's inhale exhale, ti-tock, click-clock, palindrome beats all in his head.) It's white noise.

Lethe had wound up his heart like a toy, feeding smoke in his veins as if there was some sense of morality in it - there wasn't. There had never been. Waking up that morning hadn't been actually waking up, for there was no sleep; it was all sleepless nights, and he wondered how many more it would be. When was his last true awakening? It was a week's worth of time to breathe, seven days of inhaling gunpowder and sulfur, but it was what made him up now. There was no destruction involved, fire feeding fire if only. It was breathing.

His heart chimed by the hour, only so many of those left; maybe he'd find a stopwatch and let it count, ringing in his ear like sanity - titock, totick, titock. Maybe he was already counting his sanity, the point of breaking like a weight of a scale. Oh, he wasn't broken yet he knew it himself, breaking was the easiest part. Breaking, he knew, was the end goal. The point where waking up and sleeping were two of the same, where the air in the sky was the air in his lungs and the air in his lungs were but the sky and he wouldn't be afraid anymore.

He's terrified.

Heavy bags and heavy heart, the hours biting on his eyelids and his wrists and his rib cages and his busted lip (it didn't hurt at this point, only a trademark that he entered with a death wish) he breathed with the hands of the clock. It kept him occupied. It was better to think of the ticking than his second life he'd be leaving; this was the point of no return. This was the rapture, he finally understood. He was an eight in a ring of elevens, a jack in a king's hand and he was no royalty. Only smoke and broken fingers and bruised knuckles and smoke bombs and pink dye and Lethe, Maya, Sue, Orion, Keina, Bailey the dead, his mother, he felt her hand as he felt the air in his lungs.

The elevator welcomed him home. Back to the slaughter house, a future was never in his lifelines. Factories and blood, and blood of factories, the blood of his veins were nobody else's as Bailey's were stained on the ground and his mother's arid of smoke, he bit the air, steel in his mouth like the blood of a busted lip - he was rustic. Rusted. Not breaking only suffering, the byproduct of a metal left in rain's wear, he was wearing, wearing by the edges to the point of crying behind shower heads.

He had no family.

A near week alone to learn this, to learn it by heart that he was truly dead. His palm was sweaty and smeared and his lifeline the same, he was never meant to live a life truly of his own creation - bounded by factories and simple things and then stole like lamb, rung by the neck and hung like bait. "Here I'am, Noah Bowers n'tha flesh!" Screaming in the elevator like for once he was the king, he was the royalty and the eleven and the color purple of a smoke bomb, he was no mistake.

It's strange - only in the blur of his mind is Noah Bowers not a smear.

"Murders n'thieves, n'martyrs n'me," he whispered into the match box elevator as it raises, the bag of nuts and bolts loose from his side, gone. From his side, taken by capitolite hands and sweaty palms and it was all of a lost home he had, and it's easier now, simpler now, the rust of his memory with the wearing rain, to believe that home never existed for a man of a third life. The only home now is chaos.

And it's breathing rust - a breath of nothing but stain, chaos. Home. A breath of one part air, one part rust, it brings a smile to his face as he is not alone here, for he is with the one home he has left with his automated heart. It's terror and rust and breathing and ticking, and he's still sane by every god he swears he's sane and it's a burden.

For he is only a smear.

noah enters

Asher Rainer d7m {Royal}
Hunter

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last seen Aug 15, 2015 18:16:11 GMT -5

*Whispers in eye* I'm going to kill you

The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:12 GMT -5

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Post by Asher Rainer d7m {Royal} on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:12 GMT -5

Something beautiful

ASHER RAINER
or something free?

TAG: WORDS: 876 Notes: asher rainer enters the bloodbath

Don't leave, Asher. Don't leave!

Asher stood on the pedestal, rising into the arena. Asher looked sternly forward as he rose upwards. Heart pounding. Shaking. Worried.

The number appeared. Ticking. Downwards.

Oddly enough, Asher wasn't in the least bit scared of what was coming next, at least for himself.

Sixty. Sixty seconds remaining.

Tomorrow and I could be dead.

Asher sat on the bed in his room, waiting. Sleeping didn't seem to be in his agenda tonight- and he knew he probably should, but he couldn't force himself to lay down and just close his eyes. He couldn't drift into unconsciousness, not when he could die tomorrow, leaving his family alone to survive on their own. Dooming them to be stuck in the limbo of being poor and miserable.

Dad would probably break down if he died tomorrow. He wouldn't be able to handle it. He has gone through so much goddamned misery in his life- loosing his wife right after his only son was born, to a mysterious fire. And then, 18 years later, his own son died in the 70th Hunger Games.

Fifty. Fifty seconds remaining.

Zach didn't deserve it either. His childhood didn't need to be tarnished by his older step-brother's death- it would devastate him. He wouldn't be the same little innocent boy that he is. He would harden like a rock. He wanted Zachariah to have the childhood Asher never got- have a good Mom and Dad, live nicely together and live without worries. No money problems, never struggling for food, nothing. A nice, peaceful life.

Forty. Forty seconds remaining.

And as Asher sat on his bed, thinking about his life in District Seven, tears formed at his eyes, and he hadn't shed tears in years. He hadn't remembered the last time he had cried like that- genuine sadness. And it wasn't for himself, but for others. He leaned back on his plush bed, trying to sleep. He couldn't.

Thirty. Thirty seconds remaining.

Asher's trip to the arena had gone by in a massive blur. The airship had only given Asher a glance at Preston when he boarded, and Asher gave him a reassuring nod- not for Preston, but for himself.

Remember the plan, Pres?

Yeah, of course I do.

Run like hell.

Asher had grown quite fond of Pres during the short period of time they had spent together. Asher had come to love the smaller boy, like his own little brother. Like Zach.

Asher was not going to let Pres die- not that it was completely in his power, but Asher would definitely die for Preston any day.

Twenty. Twenty seconds remaining.

Asher took a stoic walk to the pod. No-one was waiting for him, no-one was going to wish him good luck. He had wished for no-one to be here. He wanted to be alone- the calm before the storm. He wanted to live in peace a few moments before he would see a horrific scene of the tributes he had met died.

He stepped into the pod, and choked down his tears. He didn't- couldn't- hold these kind of feelings in the Arena. Sponsors were watching. They don't sponsor big pussies- they sponsor strong ones, the ones that have a will to win.

Ones that will make them turn a profit.

And the pod rises.

Ten. Ten short seconds and I die.

Asher looks at the arena. A wasteland, desert-like rolling sands and trash all around.

He looks around at the rest of the tributes, looking specifically for his allies.

He spots Gunner La Torre first, and counts how many positions to his right she is. Twelve. Enough. He could dash in and out, grab some of the few things that were scattered before them all.

He looked further and spotted Preston Garrity, and he was all the way opposite Asher. He couldn't gain eye contact, but he shook his head anyway.

Remember, Pres, Gun, remember.

Ten.

Preston. Gunner. Asher. We could all survive this, here and now. We can escape- we can survive.

Nine.

Throw what you like at us, we can win.

Whether it be Preston.

Or Gunner.

One of us will win.

Eight.

And the weapons spread out before him, Asher analyzes the weapons and anything he can use for survival in this extraordinary arena. Hot as it is, he needed something to cool off. Water, maybe? He barely knew any of that stuff.

Seven.

But maybe Preston did, or Gunner. He barely even knew anything of their skills, except Pres did just as good as Asher did in the Training Score, something he had been happy about and congratulated him on.

Six.

Asher closed his eyes for but a second, breathing in, breathing out. He imagined if Eric had been reaped instead, what he would do. His rebellious nature, he would probably chuck his token at the other tributes pods, hoping to detonate them.

Five.

Asher suddenly thought of doing that- throwing his small round ball at somebodies pods to detonate them, wiping them from existence before the Games even began.

Four.

Asher looked at the tributes that surrounded him. Lily Hope, the snooty little girl from Eight, and to his right Abel from Nine.

Three.

And it was at that moment that Asher decided against his plans. He couldn't kill either one of these two- he wasn't all about killing little kids- or killing anyone.

Two.

Who was more important? The larger kids, or his family back home?

One.

Well, that one was easy. His family.

GONG

Sorry, tributes. Asher wasn't going down without a fight.

OOC: Asher Rainer has entered the Bloodbath.

LET'S GOOOOOOOOOO!

Meh Characters-

ASHER RAINER- hungergamesrpg.com/thread/73852/asher-rainer-district-age-17
JECKLER RILEY- hungergamesrpg.com/thread/74657/jeckler-riley-d2
GALAXY LISTAL- hungergamesrpg.com/thread/74718/linstall-galaxy-d3-fin?
KREIA CHASE- hungergamesrpg.com/thread/74747/kreia-ch

Simon Karnes d10m
Seam Resident

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last seen Jun 13, 2015 16:30:45 GMT -5

The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:12 GMT -5

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Post by Simon Karnes d10m on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:12 GMT -5

Simon Karnes

Blood on my hands. Screams in my ears--- begging. (“Please! Stop, Simon!”) Her voice rings around in my head, darkness falls over me, and the smell of cinnamon and apples.

I sit up in bed, my heart beating hard and fast as look around the dark room for an enemy that is impossible to fight. I take a deep breath, an attempt to calm my frightened heart. But the smell of cinnamon and apples is still as strong as the nightmare called for and I find my mouth watering and my heart refusing to relax.

I toss the sheets aside and twist out of bed. My nostrils lead me to the door, the smell of home lingering from the other side. I hear laughter.

I twist the doorknob, ready for what was beyond with smile.

“Morning sleeping beauty!”

I blink and see the back of my Mom's head. The hair pulled back, blonde, long, and beautiful. She's baking apple pie. For breakfast. Who's birthday is it?

“Mom?”

But when she turns around she isn't Mom and she isn't baking pie. She's cradling a child, her eyes sparkling blue, her hair falling in her face, the chubby fists of the child reaching for her face. All I can see are the chubby fists. All I can hear is elated laughter.

“Hey, I thought I’d let you sleep since you were up last night with this little one,” she says, sing-songing and smiling down at the baby even though the words are directed at me.

“I smell pie.”

And those are the only words I can think to say before I am shaken awake.

“Come on kid naps over,” a gruff voice greets me, lifting me to my feet and shoving me towards a platform.

Dreaming. I was only dreaming.

But the blood, the screaming, the smell, the smile, the giggles - it all felt so real.

“Hurry it up, get in,” I'm shoved into a tube, one that closes quickly behind me. “Wait,” I say, trying to stop. Just stop. Stop everything. But the plate is already rising and words are failing me, the kid who could always tell a good story failing at words.

That's how I know I'm terrified.

I stand up straight. I puff out my chest, keep my hands at the ready, my feet itching - itching to run and run and run until I find myself in a safe haven. My feet have always managed that. Running until I was safe, running until I escaped, running away from everyone and everything and not carrying me back.

My hand trembles at my side and I fist it into a ball.

I take my first breath as I reach the surface. I cringe at the smell, so unlike that of my dreams. So unlike all of my memories of home. Mechanical. That's as close as I can get to describing it. It almost burns my throat having been born in a place where fresh, clean air was the norm. I feel more out of place here than even in the Capitol.

I turn around on my plate, looking out over an expanse of rubble, metal, and train tracks. I could even swear I hear a whistle blowing in the distance. Some distance away I see another tribute - all of them identical to me, dressed in the same clothes as me - and my focus turns back to the timer.

Tick, tick, ticking.

A bomb waiting to explode.

Boom.

simon karnes enters

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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:15 GMT -5

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Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:15 GMT -5

W Y A T T O ' C O N N O R

The first time I told my mother I was depressed was a mixed drink of two parts sorrow and one part desperation. I had counted to sixty before letting the first word fall from my mouth and even then it was nothing more than the stumble before the fall—“Mom,” simple syllable and my face twists until a sob is forming in my throat but I’ll be damned if the sentence doesn’t fall—I practiced seven times in the mirror the stage to my downfall the glass in front of my face.

I crumbled against the wall my shirt bunching at my shoulders as I slid to the floor, “Mom, I am sad.” Fourteen years old and my mother never missed a beat, “No, Wyatt, you are depressed.” Nine letters I was destined to be acquainted far too well with. Put the word to my lips and you wouldn’t find salt in the wound, no, you’d find the knife itself, tracing lightly over my skin at first like the shallow haunting of a cliff lying just two steps away, etching its path slowly until the sight of silvers sent a shiver down my spine.

You would think sixty seconds on the clock would bring about the exact same reaction.

Instead the timer begins and with fifty-nine I press a palm to my chest like I expect to feel a fluctuating in a pulse that no longer knows fear. Instead I find the straight line of a heartbeat that pounds only because it is required to. I am required to be a source of life, despite the sunken circles under my eyes because I hadn’t slept in three days—I hadn’t wanted to. Coffee in my veins instead of blood, the escort had told me three cups was enough and four was too many, but little did she know that cup number five was only holding me to three o’clock in the afternoon, and that was only if I drank number four to the bottom.

It was the same as swallowing self-hatred, bitter on the tongue and hard on the heart— I guess it’s an acquired taste.

Thirty-seven seconds and the aftertaste of cup number two lies in my throat like a knot unable to be untangled, strangling my vocal chords until the best I can manage to do is swallow. No pride or greed to be found I’m choking on thin air, cracked tongues and bleeding lips—someone end the drought.

After me, the deluge.

Bathed in red the city streets would be, the people crying for it to cease seeping into the cracks that line the sidewalk—this is dystopian. Brass, bronze, and bleeding hearts—someone rivet together the pieces of my skin that keep falling off because I only drank half of cup number five.

Twenty-six seconds and the smoke screen shields the boy from eight, explosive heart and all and I cannot see the timer behind his eyes, his detonation a shock to everyone within target range—himself included. Pull the pin and we all fall, power in the hands of a man who’d bolted his together to rid himself of the responsibility—it slips my mind that not everybody is on a kamikaze mission.

I forget that I’m on one, as well.

But dying must be better than page eleven of that clinical depression, a step up to the step down and I’m falling at a rate that outpaces the last eighteen years. Bomb myself to mend the bullet holes—this is as close to stitching the wound as I’ll ever get. Blood seeps and pain sears but still I stand with the needle in one hand and loaded gun in the other, shoot the bullet and you’re striking at an empty target.

Press the needle to my own skin and the wound gives way to that which it cannot produce, cross-stitching against the pillow on our couch. “Home to a happy family minus the shadow that lingers in the corner.”

Fourteen seconds and hatchet for a heart stands to my left, cut through his skin and you’d find the rings of a tree—thirty-six of them and they’re sure to fade to empty cells and broken skin. Stories woven through their cracks what could he tell me besides how to swing an ax?

Eight seconds; eleven pages—can’t fix the child’s problem with smearing words and torn pages, I bite my tongue until pain makes that straight line heartbeat begin to fluctuate. Seconds wasting, mission granted—bomb yourself to stitch the bullet holes even if you get shot in the process.

Three seconds; four minds—one beating, bleeding heart between us all, filled with hatchet, crumpled pages, and a screen of smoke, they call eschatology the doctrine of last things.

When the beginning of the end draws near, who is left to turn the page?

[wyatt o'connor enters the bloodbath]

Arrows
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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:32 GMT -5

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Post by Arrows on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:32 GMT -5

Hear our bitter sweet symphony,
Watch as us twisted triplets play

The world swayed and shifted around Kirito as the dark mists grew closer and closer. Clangs of metal and the screams of death roared through the coal black landscape like the roars of the devil himself. Then from the darkness came the monsoon of scarlet life. The sticky concentration of blood swelled to the heights of tidal waves. Kirito could no longer feel his heart beating, all that remained was is silent screams as the waves crashed over his nimble body. The blood filled Kirito's lunges as his body refused to move. The taste of metal and poison rushed through his throat. He was drowning, drowning in a literal pool of blood. Above his head Kirito could see the brilliant rays of the moon fading as the darkness returned and his last scarlet bubble of breath escapes his carcass

With a sudden shock Kirito sprung up in a thrashing mess as his sheets clung to his sweat sodden body. His screams of terror danced through the still of the night like a phantom fading away into oblivion. Surely now Kirito could feel his heart thundering with the ferocity of a sledgehammer. As Kirito shakily fell out of his bed he watched as the door flung open and his frantic escort came blundering in. For once Kirito was shocked with Melon Man. Instead of rushing Kirito or scolding him the man simply smiled weakly before leaving without a word.

Kirito sighed, although he wished he could have been happy with Melon Man's kind gesture he knew the only reason why he did it. The escort must have had plenty of tributes who squeal like frightened piglets in their dreadful dreams. If they are even lucky enough to find sleep on their final night of safety. How could a child not be traumatized by the thought of entering a landscape that garunteed the death of twenty three lives. Even careers must have some misgivings before entering the tubes.

Naturally Kirito's mind slipped to Circe at the thought of the careers. Out of all the ones he had the displeasure of meeting, she was the one he actually liked. He wasn't sure he would go the distance to say he trusted her like Katelyn advised him not to, but he knew he felt something towards her. Surely the feeling was not negative but alas Kirito didn't know if it was fully positive either. However he did have one question racing through his brain. Would he ever see Circe again?

Another sigh escaped Kirito's thin pink lips as his feet walked silently across the chilling surface of the marble floor. On the side of Kirito's bed he examined the outfit he was to wear in the arena. It was oddly designed but the most prominent feature had to be the belt with gears and his district number engraved upon it. Kirito wasn't really sure what the whole get'up meant but whatever it was didn't really matter. All that truly mattered was whether it would be covered in his blood.

Kirito spent the breakfast in utter silence. Not a single word left anyone's lips until Melon Man finally broke the quiet that was weighing everyone down like a boulder. "It is time to head up Kirito." That single phrase was enough to cause Kirito's body to begin to quiver like a pup just born into the new winter's snow.

As always the elevator ride was short, yet this time when the doors opened the heated waves of a silver glinting hovercraft sent Kirito's locks of hair slithering like snakes. Before stepping out to the roof Kirito shakily looked at Katelyn's fierce blue eyes as he wrapped his arms around her. "Hopefully next time I see ya we will both be headin' back to elevun alive and well." Then with a nod Kirito wobbly hobbled up the hovercraft's ramp.

Time seemed to accelerate from that point. Everything moved in a haze of seconds that seemed to linger on like the continuation of time was lackadaisically ceasing. It seemed that in what was only a minute Kirito was standing in front of his own tube. All around him the white of the walls crushed him like the snows of a fierce storm, but in front of him stood a black hole of total chaos.

Moments after Kirito's boots clicked mechanically into place the glass field of grief trapped him. As Kirito felt his body convulsing to the acceptance of fear and the chills of bitter sweet sadness wrapped around his bones the plate began to rise.

Darkness...

Darkness...

Light.

As the click of Kirito's plate signified his entrance into the arena he looked at the landscape around him. From what he could see it was a worn down hell hole. What appeared to be a clock tower loomed ominously in the distance however what caught his attention were the two trains stationed by the cornucopia's edges. It sure as hell was gonna be one interesting Hunger Games, but then again Quells always were.Kirito's thoughts were cut short by Claudius' booming voice,

"May the 70th Hunger Games Begin!"

60...

Kirito's fingers gripped his token as his mind wafted off to the fields of district eleven. A smile crept onto his face as he envisioned Ikaia smiling there, waiting for him to come back home.

50...

Far off to his left Kirito spotted Circe and couldn't help but give her a wink when their eyes met. It wasn't like it mattered anymore anyway.

40...

One. Two. Three. Kirito counted as his gaze fell slowly upon each of his allies.

30...

Could he trust them not to kill him?

20...

Could he actually find the strength to kill another human?

10...

Where would he go if he managed to survive the blood shed?

1...

Time to find out.

Gong!

[Kirito Miristioma Enters The BloodBath]

Graphic by the Breathtakingly Talented Stare

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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:32 GMT -5

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Post by aya on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:32 GMT -5

Elya Johnwayne

god if i have to die
you will have to die

Back in District Two, some referred to the very last reaping that a given child was eligible for as Judgement Day. These were usually the career tributes, the ones who had little hope for any sort of fulfilling future beyond the Hunger Games, should they be passed over. These were the ones that would ultimately become bitter Peacekeepers, or spend twelve hours a day in the quarries mining stone, just for something to do with their lives. They'd never had any aspirations beyond getting chucked into the same death trap that awaited Elya, never gave any thought to what they might do if they hadn't been selected.

They were wrong, all of them. For it was Judgement Day that awaited the one-eyed tribute from District Two, that awaited the three others chosen from her home, that awaited each and every one of them, lamb and lion and Lyon alike.

It was Judgement Day that loomed before her while she lounged about in the second floor common room, on the precipice of sleep but never close enough. There was some relief in the fact that she was not the only restless tribute in the building: Circe near wore holes in the floor, and even Gunner drifted in and out in search of entertainment.

The light of the morning came in due time. She was ushered onto a hovercraft, silent as the grave, still as stone when they injected her with her tracker, apparently catatonic by the time she was deposited in her launch room.

Elya Johnwayne walked the thin line between completely at peace and entirely unresponsive up until she was herded into the claustrophobic glass tube. She scarcely blinked as the stockyard disappeared before her very eye, replaced by rocky soil and rusted metal.

It was the sight of bows and nothing else that snapped the steely Johnwayne back into focus. Seriously? Who in their right mind wanted to watch half a dozen tributes pathetically fire all their ammunition into the dirt?

She set her sights on — ah. The weapon nearest to her was a set of brass knuckles, spikes protruding from the tops. Those were meant for her, she knew it. After the eleven she'd earned with her fist to the instructor's throat, there was no doubt in her mind that Gamemakers Garnet and Whip meant for her to have them. While they were certainly not the most appealing weapon in the whole arena — a longsword over near Gnat Krigel certainly caught her fancy — they would more than suffice for however long it took to get something better.

It only took her half the allotted time to get the feel for the battlefield that she needed: every desirable item, where each tribute was relative to her, which potholes and stones were liable to turn someone's ankle, how stupidly attractive Gunner was in the same uniform that everyone else was wearing. She spent the remaining thirty-two sixty-four, hundred twenty eight seconds just breathing. The clock wound down to zero.

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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:32 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Cameo {RIP Charlie} on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:32 GMT -5

Hear our bitter sweet symphony,
Watch as us twisted triplets play

“You’re empty on the inside.” Didn’t take long for Mother to cave from making me the sweet angel she desired, especially since my Brother could easily fill those shoes. “You stole Ruckus’s willpower in my womb, and in return he took your heart.” Least she ended the battle on forcing me to be a person that I’m not. Though she was right about one thing, “You’re nothing without him. Just a mean pretty face that knows how to dance and fight.” And that’s why I have to make it back to him. I won’t allow him to take on my insensitive role in the family. He must remain my gentle other half.

Those cruel aspects my Mother always despised, is exactly what’s going to bring me home. This is no time to only concentrate on her disapproval though. Her negative statements aren’t going to pull me through tomorrow alone. Time to switch to Father’s words of wisdom; until the brutal rings of the alarm I set, interrupts my noisy thoughts. Crap, guess it’s actually today.

A yawn joins me as I push myself up to be vertical. Haven’t been granted too much shuteye in the past few days, but I’m not too concerned over that. A good Career is well trained in surviving, a professional Career skills themselves in every factor they see fit. Since I was nine, I’d stay up for as long as I could when a Game began, testing myself to see if I was capable of enduring that hardship. A grin never failed to form across my exhausted expression as I watched a Tribute get brutally murdered in their sleep. It was only one more kid I would of outlasted. As I sip my darkly brewed coffee, I realize that this year I will actually have to outlast them.

Today’s the day I enter the Arena. This is the day I discover if my life’s purpose is at all worthy. What would Father think if I didn’t even make it through today? Would he be sorrowful over my death? Or disappointed in the Career he’s raised? He’s only grown furious due to the loss of his trainees in the past, angry with them despite how terrible their final fight might have been. Does he see his daughter within our obnoxiously huge television at home, or just another trainee of his? I fill my stomach to the brim with food, knowing very well that I’ll have plenty of time to burn it off in the days to come. Focus needs to turn to what’s ahead of me, and not the thoughts of the viewers at home.

The Countdown.

It all went by in a complete blur this morning, my brain being cursed with obsession of the family I left behind. I didn’t have a choice. My siblings must realize this. This is my calling, and I couldn’t turn it down. Guess I can just be thankful the only girl here that reminds me of Rhythm, is that annoying little Brunette from Two. And unfortunately, I’ll gladly slaughter her to see my real baby sister once more. Murder. I gaze around me with the reminder that blood will be splattering all about in…Thirty seconds.

What will you think of me Ruckus? Of course you wish for me to make it out of here, but do you consider the entire cost of this while hoping so extremely? Will you be happy to see me home, even with dead lives staining my fingertips? Twenty Seconds. It’s now or never, and I can’t receive an answer from you. Please forgive me, for I have to continue being the twin that you hate. That vicious grin reshapes across my lips. I’m ready for this.

Ten seconds.

Truth be told, I’ve never killed anyone before. I might be heartless, but that doesn’t automatically instill a crave to stop other’s beating organ. I have to though. Five seconds. I’m ready for this. Mother already hates me. Father & Rhythm will be proud. There’s no telling how Ruckus will respond. But for right now I have to be that Career. Just don’t forget that I love you. One second. Now sit back and enjoy the show.

OOC: Rhyme Morales Enters the Bloodbath

So Many Different Personalities

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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:38 GMT -5

Quote

Post by * on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:38 GMT -5

Hear our bitter sweet symphony,
Watch as us twisted triplets play

Darkness.

Complete and absolute darkness consumes the room. Any sort of light has been diminished by her own hand and she lays, comfortable, under the sheets and the thick blanket upon her bed. Ever so slowly, she intakes a deep breath. The air flows slowly into her lungs, filling them with oxygen, thankful to be alive just one more morning, then the air is released without thought. Another breath follows. Another moment of silence is given to her and she halts her breath, holding it for as long as her body will do without the constant intake of life.

Mental imagines invade her mind. Images of her her life growing up. Her mother and father, who presently aren't allowed to even see her. Her dead brother's grave just from the week previous to her volunteering. Life before the reaping this year had taken its told on her. The scar on her forehead is still visible by a long white line though the mental scarring is way worse. It's what drives her to survive. Anything to be better than what her brother was. She's faced death more times than she can count, but each time, she survived. She created a weapon from wood in order to protect herself at a early age. It kept her alive long enough to reach the tender age of fifteen.

She shrugged, exerting her muscles enough so the movement made her body cave to the depleated levels of air. Slowly, her body began to shut down and make her fight against her own will just waiting to breath in something clean. Her lungs clutch tightly onto the air that is being held for far too long, and her throat spasms to keep swallowing nothing as she forces her breath to stay lingering and her chest without movement. Curiosity about death has given her a moment of insanity as she covers her mouth to aid in keeping the air from escaping and from oxygen being taken in. A small gulp echoes from her throat as she quick removes her hand. A violent cough forces it's way up her throat as she inhales something so precious. So quickly does that massive amount of air enter her lungs so thousands of white dots appear in front of a black background. Gasping, she pushes the blankets off her head and the cold morning air hits her skin and depleats her of the moisture and heat radiating off her forhead.

"Damn..." She mutters and turns over, still encased within the darkness of the room. Even though she can't see where she's looking, she knows where the door is. She knows where the windows are located in her place of stay. Even the closet hasn't changed positions as she sits up in the bed and draws her feet over the side and touches the plush carpet below. Such a delicacy to have on her dying day. Today, Max will be policing his other officers and staying away from the screen, she's sure of it. Who would want to watch the games if they don't have to?

A knock comes to the door and a voice pulls her out of her stupor and with the flick of the lamp beside her, the day begins to unravel quickly until she finds herself staring dead ahead at the tube.

"This is it." She mutters to no one, and steps forward, dressed in the outfit they deemed appropriate for the arena. Leather? Where did they get an idea for that at? She feels nothing short of an old time version of a cowboy that she read in the history text books. Is that was it was goign to include? The gear always identifies with the arena, so is it going to be a west type of arena? Would there be dust and horrible creatures there as well?

"Breath." She states and gets into the tube. For moments of tranquility, she finds the utter silence peacefull. Almost enough to send her into a calm state but her fingers won't stop clenching and releasing. That's when the tube starts to ascend upward and the light of day hits her eyes. There all around, the tribs were being brought up and around the cornucopia. It was definately blood bath day and she resumed her focus on several prizes that she would want to take control of. Then the numbers of seconds till they were all released began. Slowly, she watched the number dwindle down from the fourties into the thirties. The thirties then entered the teens somehow. Then the last remaining seconds.

10...

"Jins. You made me stronger, but I still hate your fucking guts."

9...

"Mom, I hate you for never noticing me. You made me stronger."

8...

"Dad. You are nothing but a filty peice of trash."

7...

"I could have waited just three more years to be a peacekeeper, but I wanted this..."

6...

"What am I doing here?"

5...

"I want nothing more than to have my staff with me."

4...

"Max. Please don't watch me do this."

3...

"Max. Please forgive me for what I did."

2...

"Chief, I will always love you until my dying day."

1...

"Wish me luck!"

The sound of the buzz rang loud in her ears and she took off like a bat out of hell.

[Olivia Revenue has entered the Blood bath]

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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:44 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:44 GMT -5

[googlefont="Arya:400"]

	CIRCE LYON
	For the first time in weeks, Circe and Elya are forcibly separated. She does not want to dwell on it, but there is a part of her mind, spiraling and dark. It asks the questions she dares not: what if the Cornucopia divides us? What if Elya decides she is better off with La Torre? What if Elya does not make it? She stamps her foot against the metal floor, silencing her thoughts and startling the Peacekeeper at her side. “I’m ready,” she says to him, to herself, to Elya in absentia. He offers a gloved hand which she ignores as she steps into the tube. The electricity flickers, fissuring. For a moment, the universe shifts. Her hair curls, her eyes deepen, her shoulders broaden. She is him, in a cage. He is incapacitated by their separation, by their love. He is only a few days from his death, so close that he can taste it. He falls to his knees, hands covering his face. He is sobbing, for himself, for the distance that divides them. In his heart, he knows there is only one way for them to be together again. A spark. Circe looks up from her knees as the elevator ascends. Her cheeks are heavy, sodden with tears she has not shed. She scrubs at them furiously, fixes her ponytail, hauls herself to her feet in the few last seconds of privacy she has. When the platform squares itself inside of the steampunk arena, her eyes are red rimmed, but her jaw is set. She wonders: when they look at me, will they see Circe? Or a Lyon?
	[ Circe Lyon enters the 70th Bloodbath. ]
	district 2 female of the 70th Hunger Games

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The Bloodbath Jun 13, 2015 8:21:42 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:42 GMT -5

S U E T A T E

His muscles shift, tighten, moan and groan.

Two feet on his silver pedestal and one icy grip on his heart. It's thumps are the only think keeping him, reminding him that he is here. Sue Tate had woken up that morning, stark contrasts to the morning of the reaping.

Yes, this morning he'd woken up fully knowing that he would be marched to his death.

A branded 1 0 sits atop his back, carved into his tree bark skin with knives made of metaphors and the ashes of burnt dummies. Maybe the number was a blessing, after all, his escort had gave him one of the coldest hugs he'd ever felt when she'd seen it.

Yes, maybe it was a blessing. But as he moves his leg ever so slightly, he feels the ball and chain of his training score hold him back, muscles groaning at the strain.

He could feel their eyes on him, the only lower district to receive a score that high. And for a few moments

One

Two

Three

a few, brief moments, his eyes drop down to the grounds in front of him, the smell of metal and rust filling the air around him. One blink, two hands tightening, three count downs from the voice above, his eyes are blinded by the metallic flash of the cornucopia in front of him.

He'd like to think that he hadn't woken up that morning, that the mask of lies he wore had never been removed from his lifeless, sin filled skin. But the sun had carved through his eyelids, through the mask with a dagger of sun rays and truths.

He rubs the lies out of his irises.

30

29

28

He licks his lips, tasting the sourness and bitter results of his lies. One pat on the back of a stranger,

It will be alright.

He lied, tongue twisting with his sins and body crushed under the misguided path he'd chosen. He'd lied, biting hard down on the edge of sanity.

He'd lied, just like-

15

14

13

The voice counts down to the loss of his sanity, bare white knuckles tightening and loosening as he stares ahead at the Cornucopia, hatchet stained teeth grinding against each other for what feels like an eternity.

One breath later, his lungs feel like they're collapsing, tightened grip of his own sins around them.

5

Muscles tighten, moan and groan.

4

He tries to swallow his spit, but his mouth has run dry and instead he gets a full taste of his own lies.

One , two , three

He swears, he swears he hears a creaky floorboard as he sprints off the pedestal, sound of the gong guiding his way.

The only things that slow him down are his own lies.

{SUE TATE ENTERS THE BLOODBATH}

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Post by shrimp on Jun 13, 2015 8:00:43 GMT -5

Post by cachi olentzero | 10b | tribsi on Jun 13, 2015 8:03:27 GMT -5

Post by ✨ zozo. on Jun 13, 2015 8:19:36 GMT -5

Post by D3f Kiena Ward [Trib-sitter Ro on Jun 13, 2015 8:20:33 GMT -5

Post by Avalon on Jun 13, 2015 8:20:45 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:12 GMT -5

Post by Asher Rainer d7m {Royal} on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:12 GMT -5

Post by Simon Karnes d10m on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:12 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:15 GMT -5

Post by Arrows on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:32 GMT -5

Post by aya on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:32 GMT -5

Post by Cameo {RIP Charlie} on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:32 GMT -5

Post by * on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:38 GMT -5

Post by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:44 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jun 13, 2015 8:21:42 GMT -5