![Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] Avatar](https://64.media.tumblr.com/de401f4e6e4ca07c241afc45583f7195/d2f1890293928896-84/s500x750/0ba6fe3572f4f5f72b52d28965cfcda71e4171a0.png)
BARFs Reunion Tour [Day 3 Fight vs. ET]
Jun 27, 2015 11:00:52 GMT -5
Post by Baby Wessex d9b [earthling] on Jun 27, 2015 11:00:52 GMT -5
[googlefont="Coda Caption:800"]
lyon
When the night falls, and the sky remains empty, Circe does not know worry, or relief, or fear. She knows rage.
Elya Johnwayne is still dead, and everyone else lives.
When they settle at the edge of the Turbine field, Circe removes herself from the other two. She lifts a silver canister from amongst her things, teases out the sewing kit. The sponsors have been thoughtful; she hadn’t realized anyone knew she could sew, but maybe she’s tipped her own hand. She tugs the blanket across her lap and gets to work, patching the worm’s leathery skin across the back of her skeleton hands. She uses silver thread to work it in seamlessly. She picks apart her work from the previous evening, using matching technicolors for Elya’s eyepatch and Jaime’s heart.
When she is done, she brings the red side of the blanket to her eyes, pressing the sewn patches to her mouth. Even the worm’s skin gets it turn. When she is done with her evening ritual, she carefully repacks her bag. She straps it on tightly, trying to hold a little warmth against her flimsy white shirt. She shouldn’t have tossed aside the acid soaked jacket, but it’s too late now. It is cold and dark.
But the back of Gunner’s neck is warm. Circe smooths aside the girls hair, lets her lips fall against something other than rent fabric and flesh. “I’m ready for my bed time story,” she says, working her kisses along Gunner’s collar bone and right shoulder to come in front of the girl. Her green gaze flickers in Nat’s direction even as she drops her voice below a whisper. “I hope it makes me scream.”
Later, exhausted, she falls asleep on Gunner’s thigh. There is a cool breeze on the back of her neck and warmth all around her. She sleeps for the first time in days, she does not dream until the moment that she wakes up with a gun to her head. Gunner’s face is twisted in the nightmare almost unrecognizable. She wants to raise her hands, to duck, to fight. But she is frozen.
Click.
Nothing happens. This is a strange nightmare I’m living.
When she wakes again, a jacket has been tucked around her and morning light bathes them. She looks to Nat, eyeing his thin shirt. As they gather up their supplies, “thank you,” and that’s the last time she mentions it.
They move out, and they move fast. There’s nothing for them in the Turbines, now that Nat has groomed the ground for plants. She chews on a stem, but her belly tells her: it’s not nutrition or water; try harder. She’s going to try harder. Every step rattles in her parched throat, even inhale of breath rakes the desert flesh raw. They are walking on sodden ground but there is no water to be found.
Their answer is in the sky. It seems to her the trains have slowed overnight. They have no problem boarding one with cracked leather seats and the lights all burnt out. Her stomach sinks, gurgling around emptiness.
In the distance, a shadow.
The shadow takes on a human form. She lifts her arrow, aiming it right at his brilliant blue eye. "Orion," she breathes around the shaft of the arrow. She isn’t conscious of dropping her bag. She is only conscious of running down the train car aisle, of catapulting herself into his arms. She kisses every inch of his face. She kisses him for Nat Krigel and Gunner La Torre and Elya Johnwayne. She kisses him for the sheer joy of seeing him. "It worked! You didn't jump!"
“If this is what I get for leaving, then maybe I should have left sooner than I did. I may even be tempted to leave again.”
She holds his face with her duct taped hands, clinging to a human-sized piece of home. “Don’t you dare. I would hunt you down.” She breathes the promise into his mouth, seals it there with a final kiss. Then she puts her feet to his hips and rolls over his back, notching an arrow as she goes. By the time she hits the ground, she has taken aim. “And no one is coming between us now. Everyone off the train!”
The mixture of fog and salt is suffocating. The winds shift, shapes taking concrete form. A group of tributes ducks into the Factory and she is only too ready for something to happen. She crouches, letting her jar of tar drop and then smashing it with her heel. It is the light of flame that frames her face and frizzy hair. Over her shoulder, "First Wheel, hope you got some surprises for us. It's going to be a long day."
bow�1-50
lyon
circe
district two female
When the night falls, and the sky remains empty, Circe does not know worry, or relief, or fear. She knows rage.
Elya Johnwayne is still dead, and everyone else lives.
When they settle at the edge of the Turbine field, Circe removes herself from the other two. She lifts a silver canister from amongst her things, teases out the sewing kit. The sponsors have been thoughtful; she hadn’t realized anyone knew she could sew, but maybe she’s tipped her own hand. She tugs the blanket across her lap and gets to work, patching the worm’s leathery skin across the back of her skeleton hands. She uses silver thread to work it in seamlessly. She picks apart her work from the previous evening, using matching technicolors for Elya’s eyepatch and Jaime’s heart.
When she is done, she brings the red side of the blanket to her eyes, pressing the sewn patches to her mouth. Even the worm’s skin gets it turn. When she is done with her evening ritual, she carefully repacks her bag. She straps it on tightly, trying to hold a little warmth against her flimsy white shirt. She shouldn’t have tossed aside the acid soaked jacket, but it’s too late now. It is cold and dark.
But the back of Gunner’s neck is warm. Circe smooths aside the girls hair, lets her lips fall against something other than rent fabric and flesh. “I’m ready for my bed time story,” she says, working her kisses along Gunner’s collar bone and right shoulder to come in front of the girl. Her green gaze flickers in Nat’s direction even as she drops her voice below a whisper. “I hope it makes me scream.”
Later, exhausted, she falls asleep on Gunner’s thigh. There is a cool breeze on the back of her neck and warmth all around her. She sleeps for the first time in days, she does not dream until the moment that she wakes up with a gun to her head. Gunner’s face is twisted in the nightmare almost unrecognizable. She wants to raise her hands, to duck, to fight. But she is frozen.
Click.
Nothing happens. This is a strange nightmare I’m living.
When she wakes again, a jacket has been tucked around her and morning light bathes them. She looks to Nat, eyeing his thin shirt. As they gather up their supplies, “thank you,” and that’s the last time she mentions it.
They move out, and they move fast. There’s nothing for them in the Turbines, now that Nat has groomed the ground for plants. She chews on a stem, but her belly tells her: it’s not nutrition or water; try harder. She’s going to try harder. Every step rattles in her parched throat, even inhale of breath rakes the desert flesh raw. They are walking on sodden ground but there is no water to be found.
Their answer is in the sky. It seems to her the trains have slowed overnight. They have no problem boarding one with cracked leather seats and the lights all burnt out. Her stomach sinks, gurgling around emptiness.
In the distance, a shadow.
The shadow takes on a human form. She lifts her arrow, aiming it right at his brilliant blue eye. "Orion," she breathes around the shaft of the arrow. She isn’t conscious of dropping her bag. She is only conscious of running down the train car aisle, of catapulting herself into his arms. She kisses every inch of his face. She kisses him for Nat Krigel and Gunner La Torre and Elya Johnwayne. She kisses him for the sheer joy of seeing him. "It worked! You didn't jump!"
“If this is what I get for leaving, then maybe I should have left sooner than I did. I may even be tempted to leave again.”
She holds his face with her duct taped hands, clinging to a human-sized piece of home. “Don’t you dare. I would hunt you down.” She breathes the promise into his mouth, seals it there with a final kiss. Then she puts her feet to his hips and rolls over his back, notching an arrow as she goes. By the time she hits the ground, she has taken aim. “And no one is coming between us now. Everyone off the train!”
The mixture of fog and salt is suffocating. The winds shift, shapes taking concrete form. A group of tributes ducks into the Factory and she is only too ready for something to happen. She crouches, letting her jar of tar drop and then smashing it with her heel. It is the light of flame that frames her face and frizzy hair. Over her shoulder, "First Wheel, hope you got some surprises for us. It's going to be a long day."
OOC Notes
lights four arrows on fire with jar of tar
lights four arrows on fire with jar of tar
[Circe attacks Gabrielle O'Dale ; flaming bow ]
w|QPCwUNbow
[Arrow in Stomach -- 6.5 damage]
1-50
[extinguished; 3 lit arrows remaining]
w|QPCwUNbow
[Arrow in Stomach -- 6.5 damage]
1-50
[extinguished; 3 lit arrows remaining]
bow�1-50
![nell locke d5m [sitter] Avatar](http://storage.proboards.com/2628686/images/gksOYRFrJoiczorFEH0g.png)
[/presto]
[/presto]
[/presto]
