sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy

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я𝑜𝓈𝑒
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anyway don't be a stranger

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 21, 2016 16:36:00 GMT -5

Quote

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jun 21, 2016 16:36:00 GMT -5

{ as a note }

i am asking everyone who was not invited in this thread to refrain from posting. if you are thinking of jumping in and attacking someone, please reconsider. all i ask is to have this final sendoff for my tribute. this is the last chance i will ever have to write her; please do not take that away from me. thank you, your respect and consideration is deeply appreciated.

{ ☀ }

☆

{ listen }

we didn't need a story, we didn't need a real world
we just had to keep walking
and we became the stories, we became the places
we were the lights, the deserts, the faraway worlds

("Midway on our life’s journey, I found myself
In dark woods, the right road lost.")

"Stevie!"

Her words break her chest and split her core in two. They erupt from somewhere deep within, scraping against the back of her throat like a knife. They cut through the air-

and then her blade cuts through skull of Renée Perdris.

Percy stops breathing- they both do.

And the world turns to porcelain and crashes against her shoulders.

She blinks. Her vision spins and she blinks, watches with eyes like glass as Renée breaks beneath her blade, crumples to the ground as if she is not flesh, not bone, but paper. She finds that she nearly falls, too, against the impact of what she has done. It hits her like a stone, tears through her chest and splits her spine.

She blinks. Percy catches her breath, inhales sharply at the burn in her lungs. One, two, three, she turns away from Renée, but what faces her is more than a blur of chaos and crimson. Heathcliff Travers, whose eyes are aflame with rage, stands before her. And time becomes her enemy- it slows down, turns everything to tar, and yet does not allow the space for Percy to move quickly enough.

In not even a split second, Heathcliff's blade becomes a blur in her eyes and crimson spatters through the air.

She

blinks.

And then she is nothing.

Her legs fall out from beneath her, crumbling like old, ancient stone. Upon the impact of hitting the cold, hard ground, they become dust and her body shatters, knocking every bit of air from her lungs. Her gaze is blankly fixed on the slowly broadening puddle of blood pooling from the gash in her chest, and the screams around her gradually diminish into a hum of white noise in her ears.

There is silence when she falls, not even a scream closing around her throat. There is silence, stillness, numbness-

and that is when the adrenaline begins to drain out with her blood and agony rips and tears viciously through her entire body. It begins as a sting, a white, hollow burn in her leg, but soon it is a wildfire, enveloping every fiber, splitting every nerve in one two three four more pieces. She yearns to scream until her vocal cords are frayed and poisoned, to try to sew back together her torn open chest with her hands, to cry until the paths of the tears are carved into her cheeks and her eyes are dried up wastelands.

we were you before you even existed
i carry on, carry on, carry on
and after us the flood
carry on, carry on, carry on

She is burning, and then she is drowning.

Her eyes shut, engulfing everything in a thick, inky darkness, like the dark water at the bottom of a sea. And everything stops- her breathing ceases, her heart slows, her body lies still. She is trapped by herself, by the lead in her bones and the hole in her chest that is becoming a void. If she could get up, muster her strength against the white hot agony tearing through her veins, she would run until the stone ground broke her heels. But she cannot- the strength within her has drained out into the blood pooling around her soon to be lifeless body.

Percy Delacroix knew the moment she fell that she would not get back up to her feet, but the reality slowly unravels before her, being carved starker and starker into stone, until it finally sinks. And when it does, it becomes woven into her, like a tattoo.

But she did not know her fate when they told it to her-

"You are no saint,
you are a sinner
by blood,
fool."

They decreed, with a rosary entangled in their heads and crosses drawn in gray ash and oil on their foreheads, that the black, bitter blood ran in her veins. They pointed to the stained glass window with Ilbis and his fiery, obsidian throne, and said, "You will rot there, Persephone."

And she never believed it, the stories scrawled into the Book, the promise that there is always a price to pay. She cannot believe it, even when she stared the fire they spoke of in the face, felt its heat scar her skin.

She snatched one of the silver crosses from the altar and threw it on the ground, stomped on it as if it was nothing but filth- it was, to her, it was pain and suffering and evil- and spat swear words in the priest's face. He glared in disdain and snarled, with his hand snatching a fistful of air, "You are nothing, sinner."

She is nothing, as good as a hollow corpse on the floor.

It is the price she pays.

And then there is warmth.

It blankets her, surrounds her the way Calypso's beloved sun would during the day, during the hours they spent on the ledge overlooking the meadow. She is lifted into the air, cradled protectively in saving arms- like Calypso would hold her as she fell asleep, like Atlas held her on the balcony that night.

There is warmth, but it does not chase away the darkness. It stays, leaves her barely breathing against her savior's chest but tuning into the sound of their heartbeat and imitating its rhythm with her breaths.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

(Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.)

our silver horn it leads the way
banners of gold shine
in the cold, the cold, the cold
footprints of snow

The air is thick as ink sputtering from a broken pen, burns her lungs as if she is breathing in fire, embers, and ash. She is shattered as she inhales, exhales, but she does not cease to fight against the gentle tug of Death on her shoulders, the soft whispering in her ears- "Rest now, your battle is over."

But Calypso taught her better.

It is not, she declares, and so Death releases his grip. (But she can still feel the weight of his shadow looming over her broken body.)

It is not. The words become an echo in her head as her body is laid to rest on the ground. Her leg hits the coarse rock floor gently, but nevertheless, furious white agony rips through her once more, shakes the world and turns everything into pain. She shuts her eyes tighter, lets the darkness pour in like tar all over again, and bites her lip until she can taste blood, trying desperately to swallow the scream that makes its way up her throat.

"Percy?" someone above her says. Their voice is soft, dark, familiar, and it forces her eyes open.

They chase the darkness away. It is thick- ink- and all-consuming and everlasting, but they wipe it all away with a single word and pull her to the light. Gold floods her vision, pale and faded like the candlelight of the church, but there is no warmth. Only the cold breath of oblivion on her back (she had always felt it, but now it cuts into her flesh like a blade), or perhaps that is just the loss of blood eating away at her heat.

She looks up, and tears break from the brims of her eyes. They are liquid fire on her skin, unraveling in endless strings of thick rivulets.

Stevie sits beside her, peering at her with eyes darkened by despair, his face split in anguish. His gaze flickers from Percy's face to her blood glistening in the firelight, and with each passing moment, the agony only becomes more and more defined in his features.

"Stevie," she breathes, shivering, shaking as she speaks, "Stevie." Her hand reaches out to curl around his, locking his fingers within her own. Percy's eyes meet his- they do not shift. "I . . ." but the words "I'm sorry" die on her tongue.

She is not sorry.

"I- I had to do it," she tells him, her tears leaking into her mouth as she speaks. They taste like a bitter ocean in her mouth. "She was going to kill you."

In her busts and heists with Calypso, Percy would hold the gun against the back of her captive's skull, pressed its barrel into their skin. But she would leave her finger resting just below the trigger- she never had any intentions of pulling it.

But she did, this time.

Her blade breaking through Renée Perdris's skull was nothing more than a blink. And there were no tears, no cries of regret. She killed with precision, with intent.

And she is not sorry.

blind from the road
(hail)
we carry on, carry on
follow us, we are one

"St . . . evie," she begins, her voice breaking and then resurfacing again. (It's so cold.) "I'm not sorry. If given the chance, I would do the same a thousand times over. Calypso always told me to pick my battles, and I did. This was my battle, Stevie. You."

From the beginning, Percy Delacroix was the savior. She was never the sinner or the saint, always somewhere in the lines between. She had thought she was indeed the sinner when she stood in the District Square with the sun beating against her back, but she became the savior when she stood before Ares to take her bullet. And it is the savior she remained when she defended Stevie and took another bullet- only this one broke her chest.

She is not a sinner. She is not a saint.

It's the price she pays.

Percy's vision blurs, and her gaze flickers to the side, where Atlas has settled. He is not quite the boy she remembers in the darkness of the Capitol city, with the sly comment and smirk on the train. He is not battlescarred, not bloodied and mangled as she, but Percy can see the cracks slowly spidering throughout his body.

She prays, to anyone or anything that will listen, that he will not break.

(If he hasn't already.)

Her breaths become uneven once more, quick and then slow and back again, breaking and breaking all over again by a new rush of tears and a new wave of ice. She can hear Death in her ear, his lips against her skin- "You are running out of time."

There are others around her, faces she knows. Friends- she has never had so many of them before.

Percy's eyes flicker up to the darkness. "Don't leave me," she pleas to them.

(I don't want to die alone.)

And then her gaze treads over the threads of blood on the ground and back to Atlas. "Atlas, it's all so cold." (And it hurts, it hurts, please make it stop.) Her eyes burn, bleed, bore, into his, fire and amber against darkness. She draws in a shallow breath, fights against the blurriness that creeps into the edges of her vision, the fading focus in her head.

She breathes in, and out-
but her lungs shatter in something between a gasp of air and the beginning sob.

Inhale exhale inhale exhale- just breathe breathe breathe. But there is no time for hesitation, no moments to steady herself.

("You are running out of time.")

"A-Atlas," she forces out the words, trembling and cracking, "Atlas . . . can you h-hold me, like you did on the . . . balcony?"

Her gaze becomes a plea.

"I don't want to be cold anymore."

(And I don't want to die alone.)

A tear swells up into a bead at the corner of her eye and carves down the side of her cheek.

the battle's fought, the deed is done
our silver hum runs deep and strong
hand to the heart, lips to the horn
hand on my breast, i'll keep you warm
(hail)

. . .

lyrics: "intro" by m83.
table: fox.
{permission from rave to powerplay stevie}

Last Edit: Jun 21, 2016 18:50:19 GMT -5 by я𝑜𝓈𝑒

"even stars burn out."

pogue
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Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 22, 2016 0:37:44 GMT -5

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Post by pogue on Jun 22, 2016 0:37:44 GMT -5

Hey child, things are looking down.
That's okay, you don't need to win anyways.
Don't be afraid, just eat up all the gray
and it will fade all away.

Obsidian presses down on her flash, shadows crawling down from the cave walls and wrapping around her ankles, whispering the tales of false prophets into her eardrums, chanting their sins in the form of gospel prayers. With every swing of her hammer she hears the slam of a closing prayer book, watches the dying breaths of a flickering candle, shooting its flames onto the scriptures that are carved into the torn wallpapers of her memories.

She has seen wars before, etching their vile images into the back of her mind. She has seen bloodshed, soaked her bed sheet angel wings in their fury, collapsing under their weight.

But she has never seen the shadows build themselves into beings, wrapping their murky fingers against her throat and squeezing until she can no longer speak. No, she has never looked deep into the ice cold eyes of another person before, not without freezing herself over first.

Mid swing, the shadows drag her into the dirt and twist her head until she stares down Percy Delacroix. She blinks and suddenly she sees herself, forced to the ground by a boy whose puberty had hit him like a freight train, wrists pressed heavy into the cement below. Blink again and Percy raises her weapon, shouting the name of a boy she had never gotten to know.

She can still feel the way she had sliced at the boy's eyeball with shattered glass, feeling its ice between her fingertips. The only difference here is that the boy had gotten up, screaming, scurried into the shadows he had come from.

Renée Perdris does not get up when Percy plunges her sword through her skull, cracking it like glass. No, that's not how it had happened for her.

She had seen fire in Percy Delacroix's eyes, watched it burn with every step she took. Standing in the shadows of the broken moonlight when Percy had called them to the rooftop.

In all her years, she had never seen anyone burn as bright as Percy Delacroix. Not even herself.

Perhaps that's why it hurts so bad when Heathcliff Travers snuffs it out.

Through the haze she watches Percy spin, sees the blurry reflection of a broken prayer in the steel of his blade.

Watches his sword
fall

Watches Percy fall with it.

"PERCY!"

Her stomach drops like a meteor falling to earth, sinking like an anchor in water. Her vision pulses and blurs, spots dancing in and out of the air, bumping into each other before going out of view. With every blink she sees the shattering of mirrors, watches herself fall apart in the falling of glass. The shadows close around her throat once again and she stops, breathless, shocked.

It whispers into her ear, telling her of the death to come. She has felt fire, ice, and every combination of the two.

But this, she has never felt like this.

For a moment, her vision fades to black.

And then she sees Stevie Masinova sprint into the shadows, carrying the body of her ally with him.

Fire and brimstone, they crack against her skin and she feels her stomach burn with the acids she sprays, venom seeping from her lips as she snaps back into the broken reality she's been cast in. She watches him until her vision is blocked by the tributes she fights, the girl from five putting a gash into her hand. She growls, venom seeping from her lips as she sees the shape of Percy's broken body fade into the distance.

She forces herself to sprint the other way, praying the Lucy and Petra are right behind her, silently knowing that they are not.

The shadows dance and cackle right along with her, and with every step she takes in the path of a thief she becomes lost in their embrace, feeling the shadowy grasp of their fingertips. The world spins, and every time she tries to spin with it the innards of the shadows that cling to her splatter across the floors she stand son, dark blues and bloody purples seeping into the cracks.

It is between the grasp of her weapon and the broken breaths she takes that she forces herself to stop. To consider.

To think.

That's when the shadows drip from her skin like ink, shattering like glass on the ground beneath her. Her fingertips reach to her face and wipe the blood from her eyelashes, wincing in pain before admiring the gash on her hand. She grinds her teeth, making a promise to herself to kill that Emmery girl later.

Her reality comes in segments, scattered pieces falling into place. She stands on a bridge, wiping the shadows from her eyes. The cornucopia is still to her left, and through the heat waves and smoke she can see Stevie Masinova returning with the body of her ally, stumbling into the bloodshed as his allies chase off the few remaining tributes.

She knows none of them.

That is when the fire creeps from her eyes to her cheeks, to her chest to her legs and the world goes red. She's sprinting towards them, carrying the weight of her broken world on her shoulders, feeling herself shatter with every step, listening to the sounds of glass hit against the floor. She has seen bloodshed, seen war, felt fire and ice swim through her veins alike. She has felt the hands of the shadows grasping at her ankles, squeezing the life from her throat. She's plunged glass into the eye of a false lover, felt his blood between her fingertips, watched it pool beneath his head, dripping from his eyes as if he was crying.

But none of it, none of it compares to this.

Styx had once told her that they were all made of glass, brushed her fingertips against her cheeks, picking hair out of her face.

"All of us, glass. Just waiting to be shattered."

Maybe this is what it feels like to shatter.

She sets her sights on the boy from one, memories flitting through her mind of him falling to the floor in front of her, begging to see her body between half-assed jokes and puns. She grits her teeth, slinging her hammer over her shoulder as she breaks free from the bridge, readying herself to collide with the boy.

He is oblivious, sprinting directly into her path. That's when she jumps.

And smashes her body into his, both of them hitting the dirt below. The only difference is, she is prepared.

Before he can react she smashes her fist into his face, using the temporary disorientation to flip him onto his back. She threads his hair between her fingertips, yanking his head back, listening to his cries as if they are a symphony.

She grabs the sharpest shard of rock she can find and presses it to his throat, just enough to draw a drop of blood. His allies take notice, he whimpers in her grasp.

"Step away from her, Six, or I'll slit his throat right here."

brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]
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literally so gay, doing so many crimes

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 22, 2016 3:22:11 GMT -5

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Post by brad bradford ★ d5b [arx] on Jun 22, 2016 3:22:11 GMT -5

{ j u s t i c e }

I'm shaking.

Curled up on the ground, sniveling, hiding, back pressed against a wall, vision blurred by tears. I can't breathe. The air is too thick, the echoing screams are too loud. I'm paralyzed and I don't know why. In the back of my mind I hear a vicious sneer: You're scared you fucking pansy. No. No, I'm not. I can't be. I'm a Fray; I'm not-- we're not scared of anything.

So why are you crying?

It's because of my arm. I've got a gaping hole in my bicep, blood is dripping onto the ground and into my lap. It hurts. That's the only reason there are any tears at all. It's not because I'm scared. It's not because of the crystal with my dead sister's face on it. It's not because I'm a coward. I'm not a fucking coward.

But I don't even have the energy or strength to swipe the tears away. I feel like a child again, small and defenseless against an onslaught of fists and steel-toed boots. ("Chin up, kid!") A beefy fist collides with my cheekbone. Roger's knife tears into my bicep. It's all the same. ("Don't wanna bleed all over your silk shirt now do ya, princess?") They beat me up because I was an easy target. Because I liked wearing fancy clothes. Because I was a Fray.

And I cried because I was scared. Screamed because it hurt. Hid because I couldn't run fast enough to get away from their sausage hands and lead fists. Most parents would call them bullies; my parents called them competition. ("You're better than them. We don't raise losers, Justice.") I'd run to my parents with a bloody nose and aching ribs and pleading eyes, clutching at their legs for comfort—they turned me away until I learned to pulverize my opponents. They made me strong. They made me.

I'm so--

Stupid.

I clap my hand over the hole in my arm. I grimace, groan. I'll kill that motherfucking pirate if it's the last thing I do I swear to fucking-- I squeeze tighter on my wound, let out a gasp. I hear my allies, hear someone screech in the darkness—("PERCY!!")—and I know I have to get up. I have to hope my allies haven't seen my tears, my moment of weakness shining through the cracks in my skin. It's time to be a Fray again. It's time for me to go.

I stand and begin to sprint after the fucking unicorn mane prancing away. I can see him cradling someone in his arms, a silhouette of dangling legs and tousled hair racing across my vision. Even from here in my hiding place I recognize what's happening; I always knew Stevie was soft. I know it without seeing her face. Percy Delacroix is dead. I don't want to deal with weepy, depressed allies. Not sure it's worth letting her even get her final sentences out.

Sounds heartless, but I can still see Percy's small frame plunging a sword through my district partner's skull. As much as I couldn't stand her, she was from home. And if this Games can't be mine, I'd have wanted Renée to take home the crown. Percy Delacroix may be young, but she's a murderer and fierce competition. It's good to have this baby-faced killer crossed off my list. She needed to die; this is fantastic for me.

But somehow as I watch the nearly lifeless swing of her legs dangling from Sodomy's arms, I don't feel relieved. I don't feel sorry for her, I don't feel sad or angry. But I do feel a sort of hollowness crawling from heart, spreading through my veins. Some of us are more worthy of winning than others. And some of us--

My thoughts lapse as I get lost in the swinging of her legs again, the swish of her hair. She shouldn't even be here. She's only a kid. She's just a kid. Why is she here? I stumble, catch myself—blink, blink. She shouldn't be in this place, I--

The air in my lungs is blown out of me by some force only the darkness knows. I collide with the ground, injured arm first. I yelp in pain, but that too is cut short when a fist collides with my nose. "Fuck!" I screech in pain, moving my arms to block out any more attacks. But it's already too late; I'm flipped over and pinned to the ground in the split second I had hesitated.

Fingers rake through my hair and a yelp again, tears readying themselves at the corners of my eyes, ready to follow the trail that the many others before them had carved only a few minutes earlier. Something sharp presses into my throat; I swallow hard. The memory of Opal brushing a knife across my cheek flashes in my mind. I groan in protest, hiss and splutter in feeble attempts to escape this death hold.

Shit.

"Step away from her, Six, or I'll slit his throat right here."

I recognize the voice the instant she speaks. The terror fades, at least some of it. Better to be a cheeky bastard before I die than a whimpering child. I try not to grin too widely though, hold in a chuckle. Because even though I'm sure she wouldn't dare kill me, the only man here who could possibly do anything for a Career like her, she still his a sharp, pointy object at my jugular. Don't really want to risk it.

I glance towards Stevie as best as I can. My allies have appeared around me, Achilles' rushing up behind her. I feel a small stream of blood moving down my neck, my collarbone, my chest. Percy looks smaller now than she ever has before, curled up in Stevie's arms. I don't even both trying to shift towards Achilles, I just get the words out as best as I can.

"I don't normally like it rough, but I guess I can budge just this once."

Of course the rock delves deeper into my neck, her fingers tug more roughly at my hair. The smallest of grins on my face turns into a grimace. "Ah, shit!"

My next words come only as a raspy whisper. Not because I can't breathe, but because the words get caught in my throat.

"She's dead."

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

Python
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sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 22, 2016 17:20:36 GMT -5

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Post by Python on Jun 22, 2016 17:20:36 GMT -5

[presto]

[/presto]

M A C H A O N .

When all was quiet, he listened. There was no wind to whisper in his ears, only the roar of flames and the gasps that shook his lungs. There were no more footsteps, no more clashing metal objects, no more voices. It was eerie; the type of dead quietness that could devour him. He knew that at any moment, someone could leap out from behind the Cornucopia and slide a knife between his ribs. A bloodstained silence was not what he wanted. Supplies were scattered about, so he decided to busy himself by collecting everything that looked practical. There were vials and needles, which he assumed were for curing poison. He accidentally kicked a spray bottle of some sort and shoved it into his bag without hesitation. Food, medical kits, torches, and gems decorated this place like treasures. He wasn’t sure why he of all people deserved this, or how he had achieved it.

He wiped away a rivulet of sweat from his forehead. Whether he deserved this or not, he was taking full advantage of everything until his bag overflowed. As a nurse, medical kits were his priority. He wouldn’t risk infected wounds or blood loss – two slow, agonizing deaths. He also wouldn’t risk starvation or dehydration, especially when relief was sitting out in the open. Why hunt when there was beef jerky and trail mix everywhere? When he shook one of the jugs and sniffed its contents, he knew it was water. In a place like Hell, water sources probably didn’t exist. They were lucky to have stumbled across this surplus. Then again, hadn’t they fought for this? They could’ve fled at a moment’s notice and regrouped with nothing but weapons and empty bags. Now, that idea seemed absurd.

Apparently he could accomplish more than he thought he ever could.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and scanned the area. Stevie was nowhere to be found, but Justice and Atlas were accounted for. He stood within the shadow of the looming skeletal hands, watching Justice bleed from his arm. He was smart enough to collect his own supplies, right? Machaon wasn’t interested in a conversation. He didn’t want to lead, he didn’t want to offer advice, and he didn’t want to spend the next ten minutes strategizing. He needed a damn break; which is probably why I’m gonna die. Sighing, he stepped out of the shadows and headed Justice’s way. The least he could do was close up that wound before it rotted.

In this hellish wasteland there was gold. It winked at him from afar, raising his brow toward stalactites. There were bags of golden coins perched beneath the hands and crushed gemstones taking up space at the bottom of his bag, but he didn’t expect a sword. Gem-encrusted and carved of gold, it looked like something from a fantasy book. Then he remembered that this was the Games, and he was standing in Hell. Anything was possible. He lifted it up and stared at the workmanship. He didn’t know shit about weapons, but it looked deadly enough. Pretty and deadly; a design meant for District One.

He decided to carry the career sword until he found someone worthy. Justice was within walking distance, but he hadn’t deemed him trustworthy quite yet. Careers were known for their cunning edge, their ability to empty themselves of empathy, and their apt for betrayal. He supposed the other tributes were just as capable, so perhaps it was unfair to judge. I could keep the sword just for kicks. A golden sword for a paling corpse. Completely unfitting. It drained the weapon of any value, knowing that its decoration wouldn’t make his death any less painful or disgusting. A woman could dress herself in a gown and cover herself in breathtaking jewelry, but she would still die and she would still decompose.

With that in mind, he sighed. Kicking himself when he was down was his forte, yet he kept the sword gripped in both hands in case of trouble. Trouble always found its way into his life, and this time it came in the form of a bloodthirsty woman tackling Justice when he was out of reach. He noticed the figures next to them – Stevie and Atlas, standing over a…body?

”What is going on,” he whispered to himself, in more of a grumble than a genuine question. His sword was dragging through the dirt when he approached them and found her: the little girl, Percy, who only a few days ago had latched onto his leg and made herself a nuisance. He had become her entertainment for a short period of time. Now her chest was torn open, gaping like a red cavern. Time and time again he had watched children die with white backdrops and white sheets, their cheeks caved in and their eyes glazed with tears.

This felt like home all over again, but it also wasn’t. Home was white, and silence was driven away by the quiet sobs of relatives. Everything here was red and the void was filled with gasps and the distant sound of Justice’s struggle. He probably should’ve done something about that.

”Who did this?” he asked quietly. It was aimed at nobody in particular, and he had no idea how he would use the information given to him. He was not driven by vengeance or anger. There was not a single part of him that was surprised by any of this. Did that lesson the pain? No, but it masked his sincerity and he felt disappointed in himself as a result. The fact that he could hardly feel anything anymore; that was worrying.

Scary, even.

ooc:
{gives parfait, 1 antidote, 1 cave spider repellent, and 1 medkit to Ross}
{receives full jug of water from Ross}
{collects 3 bundle of medical plants}
{gives 2 bundles to Ross}

Last Edit: Jun 22, 2016 18:20:01 GMT -5 by Python

Kire
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thinking about thonking

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 22, 2016 21:24:01 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Kire on Jun 22, 2016 21:24:01 GMT -5

ROSS WOLFE

and the u n i o n is carved
from stone that is not to be halved
and the imprints of blood
call this l o v e

There were moments that passed where you thought you might be fine to settle down and avoid everyone until they had all killed each other off. Unfortunately, there were many more moments when you realized that you would not be able to pull such a stunt. For one, no one like a coward, and that is what you would be seen as. Though it was the smart plan, you couldn't bear the bitter taste of disgust that would come from yourself and any others who watched you hide while others fought. No, you knew you would interact with others again, but whether it was to fight them or not was to be seen.

You had just left a fight, turned your back on the remnants and walked away. Why? Because Mach had asked you to, and because you knew that it was the moment for you to leave. Had you stayed, only trouble would have come from it. As it was, you had gotten a number of items - scooped amidst the destruction of lives and innocence - and so while there were certainly other useful items to be found, you knew that you could make it with what you had. Especially since only seconds before you had been sent a crystalline bottle containing yet more water, even after you had already acquired some during the craze of minutes prior.

There was a fight you were in the middle of now. The battle was between two parts of your own mind. One side argued that you should leave this area and get as far away from everyone else as you possibly could. The other side countered by saying that you wanted to see Mach again. Back and forth, the twisting and shifting of your inner magma splashed toward two different paths. The mountain was holding firm, for the moment, but soon the entire continental plate would slide and an earthquake of motion would surface up from the depths.

To your inner ear, the rock began to scream and heat up. Heat, that was what Mach was to you. Where you were so often cold stone, he was the fire and the sun to warm you. That one moment of blazing heat he had bestowed upon you had seemingly weakened you and made you brittle. You could try to hold your granite form but by the second, each passing breath, you knew that you would go back to see him at least this one last time before hopefully parting forever. He wasn't good for your survival.

You had nearly forgotten the others you had met in those few days between the Reaping and the Games. Aside from Mach, you had successfully buried the weakness each face made in your sheer cliffs. Rock slides of icy boulders filled in the holes made by names and stories. However, even feet of rock couldn't hide the way the girl's body shook you. You saw her laying at the feet of a number of people, one of them being Mach, even more still than you could ever be. She had insisted on talking at you, and at trying to get you to speak. You had refused, barely managing to maintain your silence and your calm as you were climbed on, hit, yelled at, and generally harassed by this young girl. Despite being a nuisance, she had made a positive impression on you. Somewhere amidst her infuriating habits and acts was a girl that was a lot like your mother might have been. The loss of that potential was a shock for you.

The sound that escaped your lips was not human. It was the sound of rock grating and scraping, the music of a collapsing cliff face. You rumble deep in your chest, grinding along your trajectory to reach the fallen figure. For once, Mach isn't in your direct thoughts as you come to stand only a short ways away from the broken girl. Red blood gathered around her like a scarlet halo - an ironic symbol in a place such as this. Your eyes narrow and you look away for a moment to gather your indifference again. It comes slowly, clinging to the shadows that it was cast into only moments before. Just as you nearly have it in hand, Mach spots you. Any thought you had had about turning away and leaving again - you barely knew her; she was a weakness; you didn't belong here - left without you. You knew you would have to stay, at least for a short moment longer. The volcano grumbles.

{Uses First Aid on himself for -3}
{Receives parfait, 1 antidote, 1 cave spider repellent, 1 medkit,
{and 2 bundles of medicinal plants from Machaon}
{Gives Machaon his full water jug}
{Uses Medicinal plants on himself for -2}

and i join you in your walls
we realize our own f a u l t s
and as h e a r t s we go, we go
humbled, oh

. . .

lyrics: "union stone" by phildel.

On hills and waves on stormy days.

maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]
Head RP Tutor

4,677 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 1, 2024 16:42:16 GMT -5

oof

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 22, 2016 22:03:44 GMT -5

Quote

Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Jun 22, 2016 22:03:44 GMT -5

A
T
L
A
S

The constant pounding in my head has given way to dread. A heavy kind of weight in the back of my skull that throbs and contorts my face into something unrecognizable. There is blood on the rose-quartz sewn into my hammer- staining the pink with black crimson rain. I'm shaking, the head of the warhammer rested against the stone floor. I thought I would feel warm with this adrenaline coursing through every inch of a frozen body, thawing every fear as my heart races against the clock. But it's not a good rush, akin to the feeling of a reaper's blade kissing the skin of my chest.

Movement catches my eye, the whole of my body seizing as I prepare for an attack. For pain and the tearing of my body in two. But the faceless beast runs away from me, hair a tangled mess of black curls fluttering behind him and- oh. Stevie. It's Stevie. Is something wrong? He's running, legs danged over this arm that are too small to belong to anyone but-

Percy.

My mind is blank, a slate of pure silver as I sprint after them and away from the Cornucopia. The skeletal hands of death herself wave farewell as she secedes into the darkness below. It figures that this arena would be a literal hell, ghostly chains wrapped around each ankle as I drag myself closer and closer to them. My friends.

I fall to my knees hard beside Stevie, granite tearing into the exposed skin but I cannot feel anything but bile burning a greedy path up my throat. The little girl was gored, red - too red - bubbling from a hole in her chest. Perhaps she and I have seen the most death in our lives, slit our wrists and signed our lives away in the drying blood and I know that there is no healing this. That this little fucking girl is dying and for a moment I wish nothing more than to take on her pain. Steal her wound and throw my life away for her sake. It was a worthless life anyway.

Because I know I'm not going to make it out of here alive. But Percy? She was strong, she was smart- she was a little fucking girl. Shaking fingers wrap around Stevie's wrist, searching for strength as Percy whispers to him. I'm not the touchy-feely kind but I need to feel the pulse of another person. Living. Breathing. Just to know that we are okay.

There are no guns in this arena. I cannot hide behind the rush of a bullet into fragile skulls, there are no devil's tears to tear into skin and save me the pain of watching life drip slowly from the tips of their fingers. This time it is Percy's clock, the chimes of midnight thundering about the whole of my being and forcing a peculiar pressure into the back of my eyes.

When her eyes find mine it's all I can to keep from crying, swallowing the boulder rising in my throat. "Atlas it's so cold." (Like that night on the balcony.) The very memory is a weight sent crashing into my chest, shattering my lungs and stopping my heart. Without a moment's hesitation I take her hands between my own, breathing warm air onto her bloodstained limbs.

Percy asks me to hold her, to chase away the cold like I could not the monsters who stole her life. Just as I reach to scoop the small girl out of Stevie's arms there is a battle cry somewhere from behind me. Grief and rage and fear thundering across the arena. "Step away from her, Six, or I'll slit his throat right here."

Defiantly, I take Percy into my embrace and cradle the dying girl against my chest in an attempt to shield her from the war unfolding in front of us. "Stop it." I murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear so that her eyes are all I can see. Bright and alive, not yet glazed a she prepares to cross into a plain I cannot yet follow her to. "Fucking stop it!" My voice is louder, shaking like a leaf fallen prey to a twister but I am strong. "Don't you dare kill anyone else right now you fucking hear me?!" I turn my attention back to her, to the home that is dying within my arms. "Come on Percy, this isn't it okay? I have a medical kit- we can fix this so please don't give up. This isn't it. You're not gonna die right now. Not like this."

There are tears carving white paths down the grime caked to my cheeks, falling onto a tank top as black as the heart I thought I once possessed. But hell, I feel this. I feel a little girl curled within my arms and I can feel death taking her away. Pulling her further and further out of reach as I cling to her with all the strength I possess.

And I've never asked for anything because the answer was always no. I never begged because it was beneath me. My pride is my most fatal of flaws, as likely to kill me in this arena as the metal blades of which there must be thousands surrounding me. Monsters veiled in the shadows and waiting to tear me to pieces.

Just like they have her.

"Please, Percy, you're all I have left of home. You can't leave me here. You can't. Please?"

ooc:
atlas gives achilles a full water jug
atlas gives achilles a fruit salad
atlas gives achilles a medkit
atlas gives achilles cave spider repellent
atlas gives achilles antivenom
atlas collects 3 bundles of medicinal plants

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

Deleted

0 POSTS
last seen Nov 5, 2024 3:39:11 GMT -5

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 22, 2016 22:49:54 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Deleted on Jun 22, 2016 22:49:54 GMT -5

    and again we saw the stars.

("Stevie!")

Blood lands on me, drenching me and I scream something ungodly, a body lands and so does "Percy!". Because this arena's a loaded gun and we're all playin, and "it's gonna be okay, it's gonna, it's gotta, I have you, I," I grit and spit and bruise and I don't bleed. I don't fall or die or anything, I'm fine, and I don't fucking deserve it. "This wasn't supposed to happen, fuck," fuck, fuck, I'm running, my feet hitting pavement with her head in my arms and my nails digging into her shins, fuck, I bite my lip and blink.

"This wasn't supposed to happen,"

"Stevie," fuck me, oh fucking hell, I can't do this.

I run like the dealer boy back in district six, like the fuckass who everybody knew would die before even hitting twenty, and here I am. Here I am holding a child in my hands and "Stevie," the consonants like rust. I'm a rat, a mess, everybody wanted me fucking gone but here I am and I just keep going without my own consent, this wasn't supposed to happen, it wasn't supposed to be her, it wasn't supposed to be me here holding her and it wasn't supposed to be blood caked in my hair and still in my veins, I'm fine. And I know I shouldn't be.

"St . . . evie," I choke.

I choke and fall and my lungs feel like they'll crack in half and I dropped my war hammer to pick up this shotgun child and I'll die with her and I choke. "I'm not sorry," shut up, I don't want her to start, I don't want my existence validiated by a dead child and I don't want these words in my skin, I don't want this, I, "If given the chance, I would do the same a thousand times over. Calypso always told me to pick my battles, and I did. This was my battle, Stevie. You."

Even in death she's still more sane than me.

And I want to smile that Stevie brand smile that never seems to fucking die, to laugh and joke and to give her a piggy back ride back to the cornucopia and tell her, we won, Percy, we did it, we can fix you, but all I hear is the trigger clicking in my ear as I hold her -- this was my battle. She saved my life at a second's notice before I even knew I was in danger and I press her into my shoulder, I can't fucking cry in front of her, fuck. Her blood gluing our shirts together, fuck, fuck, fuck.

"But why, Percy," I'm lightheaded and the veins of my neck pounding like an eight o eight drum and, why. I'm just a fuckin' mess, I'm not making it out of here. Two people died over the worth of my name like it means something, one of which I never even knew. The other dying in my hands and I tone out the sounds of Atlas's arrival, and the other's after. My arm wrapped around her back and I cough and choke and everything I can do to not cry; funerals are for the living.

We're all fucking dead here.

"Step away from her, Six, or I'll slit his throat right here."

And for a second, Atlas screams. He screams something and I freeze, tears matted in my eyelashes, but this isn't my corpse. My hand slips from around Percy's back, I can't do this anyways. I can't be here, I can't have her die in my fucking arms; that's like a damn sin to the name. Dying in a dealer's hands. "Take the fucking body," and I'm tired. I'm already so fucking tired and I tell myself this wasn't supposed to happen, that that should've been me, I should've been fucking dead. But it's fucking stupid, it's a waste of time telling myself the same things I've said for the past ten years.

But she has Justice by the throat, her hand in his hair and the freak's enjoying it, and I crack, she's fucking dead. Percy's dying out on concrete and we're joining her New Orleans funeral any day now and district two's living it up, guess it's nice knowing you won't have to kill her yourself. "What do you fucking want?"

"You want shit huh? We got the whole fucking nine yards here!" My voice cracks as I throw the bag of shit at Lucy as hard as I could, fucking hell. Crashing a funeral, that's classic.

Seventeen years of death threats, but I'm still fucking standing; as long as you're killing, start with me at least.

I'm tired of this.

[presto]

do not be afraid; our fate cannot be taken from us.

[/presto]

[ ooc :
drops war hammer
gives lucy a fjallraven backpack of shit;
fruit salad
full water jug
antidote
cave spider repellent
medkits x2
plus the light blue fjallraven backpack itself

Last Edit: Jun 22, 2016 22:58:20 GMT -5 by Deleted

lucrezia eckhart d6f [tribsit]
Seam Resident

7 POSTS

last seen Jul 12, 2016 16:13:36 GMT -5

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 22, 2016 23:33:34 GMT -5

Quote

Post by lucrezia eckhart d6f [tribsit] on Jun 22, 2016 23:33:34 GMT -5

[ filler for Lucrezia, as Kari is on vacation but will be back soon to write this post ]

"Don't leave me."

"I'm right here."

[Lucrezia takes Percy's hand]

"I won't leave you. I won't ever leave you.

[She grips Percy's hand tighter]

"I- I promise."

[Lucy's voice is cracked by a sob]

"You want shit huh? We got the whole fucking nine yards here!"

[Stevie throws a bag at her]

"I don't want shit. I-" [her voice is broken by tears again] "I want Percy. Stevie, stop. S-She's dying- stop."

[cries ;-;]

{receives stuff from stevie
gathers 3 bundles of med plants
more in trib maint probably}

Last Edit: Jun 23, 2016 3:55:54 GMT -5 by lucrezia eckhart d6f [tribsit]

D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]
Advertiser

2,132 POSTS

last seen Sept 16, 2024 14:51:10 GMT -5

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 23, 2016 4:54:37 GMT -5

Quote

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jun 23, 2016 4:54:37 GMT -5

petra.

Light on my feet but running with a heavy heart. Chaos looms between my fingers; weapon in hand stained only by the dark air and the surrounding hell. No blood of my enemies, only my own which has seeped from my wounds and through my uniform.

Open wounds fail to close in this moment. Too much war and brutality continues. There is no peace, no peace forged within such a battlefield, but in a split second I hear the voice of a falling friend who is clutching to the final straws of life. One blink and Percy Delacroix is fighting her own battle, two blinks and she's losing her balance and toppling from grace.

Achilles turns on her heels, Lucy moves faster than a lighting strike.

I cannot remain stranded, and so I run. I run, with no goal or hope of survival, I run out of care of an ally and friend who is battling the elements and the wrath of a brute's blade. There is no feeling of selfishness now, for it is broken by the deafening sound of pure death. In the form of Renee Perdris I'd heard the sound,

and now I hear it in Percy Delacroix.

And I don't want to, but it consumes me. No screams or shouts can break the glass walls it has built around me, it's far too strong for a weak girl like me to destroy. A broken girl was always destined for failure: already a victim to her own curiosity and now losing the battle against insanity.

It is taking over.

Stars rain from above and they collide with emotion. I follow behind Achilles and Lucy, eyes peeled and looking between the shadows of friends and towards foes who lurk in the unknown. I'm finally feeling it now: cold touch of fear on my cheek, death tickling the other with a feather touch.

Weak, but one glance at a hopeless Percy and I'm spiralling into oblivion.

Butterflies are unleashed into my stomach and I feel sick. I feel sick, and oh my Ripred, I'm literally actually going to be sick. She's so helpless and reliant and isn't her usual self and she's been robbed by such a cruel piece of weaponry held by the hand of a devil.

Heartless, hopeless and helpless; why did it come to this?

It didn't have to come to this, I'm sure.

Distant echoes emerge from the darkness behind me. Footsteps beat against the floor like drums lost in an orchestra. Harmonies out of time like voices of angels who are turning to stone and like Gods above who are desperately trying to turn back time by flipping pages back and forth. There is no set pulse, no set rhythm, for it is all just a mess.

Then, I see eyes.

"Oh my fuck, oh my fuck." I turn from marble to dust and every sense of stability in breathing fades.

It's Stevie Masinova's allies. They run with determination in their stride. They were victorious, after all, and had managed to scare off the remaining tributes who were in contention for the wealth. Perhaps it was a good thing that they had won it; our alliance has ties with them in the form of Percy and Atlas, Lucy and Stevie.

Every cloud has a silver lining, but I can't put my finger on it. I'm too absorbed in the pain I feel for Percy and the pain I feel in myself. I'd been on the receiving end of lesser blows, lesser blows from the potatoes from Ten and Eleven. A beaten body surrounds me—perhaps these blues and purples are a reflection of my true colours—and there is blood dripping from my neck and hands.

Bloodied knuckles move to the wounds to try to stop the hurt, but I made it out alive—Percy has a delicate but decrepit heartbeat.

It barely beats.

I push through the ghostly faces which haunt her, kneeling down above her. Eyes beaming down onto her like lost moons in the night sky, I meet with her sunlight and she burns away my dark. She's beautiful in life and in death, and there is a resurgence in the thoughts of serenity in collapse.

Painfully peaceful.

Lucy takes Percy's hand into her own. She clings onto her with a tight grip, but still she manages to be always slipping away. I can't bare to look at it, death, but the only way to beat fear is to look it straight in the eye and show you are unaffected, invincible.

I see that in Percy.

Percy was, is and will always be strong.

"It's not the end, Percy, I promise you."

I glance between Lucy and Percy—she is breaking, and so am I. Emotionally, physically, mentally. We can't avoid our own fall, despite our best attempts, but we still feel the need to conceal the emotions which drive us towards the edge.

Eventually, we are set to go over and fly without wings.

"And we're not saying goodbye; goodbye means going and forgetting."

Lucy makes her own promises, before finding herself submerged in anger and delivering words like iron towards Stevie. He offers compensation, she declines with unholy words, but it's okay.

Religion cannot save us; our Gods are feigned.

Flutter of my eyelids and I'm transported back into evil. A red ocean washes over Percy's skin and my own—I blink again in an attempt to rid myself of such ugly but it's still there. It covers me, oozing from my neck and hands, still. And I should stop it, I should try to stop it now, but this is about Percy now.

I'd told myself this before, but my memory is washing away with the scarlet storm which is taking over.

"We can't do that, we won't do that. I promise you."

Shaky words are said to try to reassure myself. To forget such a soldier would be an injustice, an insult to her mentality and name. I can't let myself, we won't let ourselves.

I've made a promise to her; a promise I swear to keep.

Half a smile moves onto my face. It's uninvited but welcomed. There is beauty is the breaking, but it's a sad kind of beauty, a tragic kind of beauty. I smile and tears form in my eyes; I smile and raise a hand to wipe them away.

I wipe them away, but this moment remains a blur.

A moment, a blur that I promise to remember.

Last Edit: Jun 23, 2016 15:28:36 GMT -5 by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]

я𝑜𝓈𝑒
Mentor

2,890 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her/they/them
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anyway don't be a stranger

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 23, 2016 15:26:24 GMT -5

Quote

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jun 23, 2016 15:26:24 GMT -5

P E R C Y

{ listen }

the tops of crags and cliffs, the air is thin
so we'll find a mountain path on down the hill
meet me where the snow melt flows
it is there my dear where we'll begin again

("But the stars that marked out starting fall away.
We must go deeper into greater pain,
for it is not permitted that we stay.")

[this is only fragments of my post, more will be coming later- filler for now]

She is burning, and then she is drowning.

Percy Delacroix has hurt before. She has been torn open, thrown to the concrete, had her heart ripped out of her chest and crushed before her eyes by a cruel hand. But she has never been broken on the ground with a scarlet void in her chest, had her bone snapped in two, or had a red sea sprawling out beneath her.

Her world has shattered and become only pain.

Tears burn down her cheeks, liquid fire upon paper skin, but she does not scream. Her cries in anguish shrivel up and die in her mouth- she can taste their ashes bitter on her tongue.

(Atlas it hurts, please please make it stop it hurts.)

Beside her, a hand closes around hers-

Lucrezia.

All the fire, tearing through every nerve, every vein, every inch of flesh in bone in her body, gradually ebbs away into white noise. But it is replaced by a strange, thick darkness that wraps itself around her, entraps her within its cold embrace.

Darkness. Ice.

That is all there is, here.

But it is gone for only just a moment- the fire returns, greeting her with a sharp, excruciating sear in her leg. The darkness remains.

Darkness. Ice.

That is all there is, here.

"I'm right here," Lucy assures her. Her touch floods Percy's body with warmth for a moment, and then it recedes. "I won't leave you. I won't ever leave you." Lucrezia's grip on Percy tightens, as if Percy is slowly falling into a gaping, endless abyss, and Lucrezia is desperately holding her back from its mouth.

"I- I promise."

A sob splits her voice like it is glass.

[expand on this]

"It's not the end, Percy, I promise you." says Petra's disembodied voice. Percy turns her head- she gasps sharply at the pain that accompanies it and a harsh burn of tears pierces her eyes- and finds Petra with her eyes. "And we're not saying goodbye; goodbye means going and forgetting." She pauses, her eyes treading over the blood glistening in the firelight, staining the ugly, gaping hole in her chest. "We can't do that, we won't do that. I promise you."

Reassurance. That is what creeps into Petra's voice as she gives a half smile and wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.

[add more to this]

But Percy Delacroix shakes her head.

(Though not in denial.)

She smiles. White agony tears her apart from the inside, but she smiles. "It's . . . it's okay," she breathes, but her words are broken. "It's okay." Another tear unravels from her eye. "I know it's the end, Petra. Don't make promises you cannot keep."

Percy did not think she could break more- but she does. She can feel the cracks spidering throughout the chest from its core.

[expand here]

"But why, Percy?" Stevie asks, but his question sounds more like a plea.

[add on]

"Because I'm selfish, Stevie," her lips struggle against the words. "Because I couldn't let you die."

[expand on this- irony that she says she is selfish when she is not at all; savior; Achilles

"Step away from her, Six, or I'll slit his throat right here."

[talk about how Achilles appears, knife held to Justice's throat]

No, she wants to say, but the words are lodged in the back of her throat. No, Achilles, stop.

[add more, talk about the pain and suffering]

And then her breath releases all at once in a slow, shaky wave; Atlas takes her into his arms. He is the sun in this great sea of endless blackness, wrapping her in warmth and chasing away the empty cold, the darkness that wound itself around her body.

[add more to this]

Atlas's chimes in when she cannot.

Stop it," he commands them, tucking a stray strand of Percy's hair behind her ears. Her eyes flicker back to his, drinking in all she can, for she knows that will never see him again. [expand on Atlas's warmth and kindness]

[Stevie throws the bag at Lucrezia]

"What do you fucking want? You want shit huh? We got the whole fucking nine yards here!" [expand]

"I don't want shit. I-" [her voice is broken by tears again] "I want Percy. Stevie, stop. S-She's dying- stop."

[expand, Percy is heavy and tired]

"Fucking stop it!" Atlas's voice rises into a shout. "Don't you dare kill anyone else right now you fucking hear me?!"

[add more here]

His eyes move back to hers. "Come on Percy, this isn't it okay? I have a medical kit- we can fix this so please don't give up. This isn't it. You're not gonna die right now. Not like this."

But she knows that no amount of needles or bandages can fix her; you cannot piece back together glass when it has shattered to dust.

[expand more on this, Atlas crying, gripping her tighter]

"Please, Percy, you're all I have left of home. You can't leave me here. You can't. Please?" he begs her, pleads to her, and she wishes, with every piece of her very being, that she could stay.

[expand]

"I- I don't have a choice, Atlas." [Percy begins to sob.] "I don't want to leave you."

[her gaze brushes over everyone around her]

"I don't want to leave any of you."

[expand, she squeezes Lucrezia's hand]

"But I'm not afraid of the end."

And she is not.

[expand- Calypso telling her there is no end, she considers the possibility]

"I just- I just want you to hold me, Atlas. And don't let me go." [more crying, a bit of fear grips her] "Please don't ever let me go." [add more onto this, she presses her head into Atlas's chest and transition into Machaon]

"Who did this?" asks Machaon. His voice is soft, nearly a whisper.

Her eyes zero in on his, looking up from Atlas.

"H-Heathcliff . . . Travers," she chokes out. "The boy from Two." The words leave marks down her throat, scraping against her insides like a cluster of needles, but she has felt greater pain. "I . . . I killed his friend, the girl from One, I . . ." she begins to explain herself to Machaon, but she struggles to find her voice- for a moment, it is caught in a rift between the dying of her breath and the determination to save it. "She tried to kill Stevie, I . . . I had to."

A tear rips down her cheek.

"I had to save him."

(And I'm not sorry.)

Her eyes flicker to the sword in his hand, majestic and menacing and golden, decorated at the hilt in various gems glittering in the firelight. She smiles: they remind her of the stars at home. [expand, she recognizes the sword]

"That's . . . that's mine," she whispers. [expand] "But it should be Stevie's. It was mine and now . . ." [she loses the strength to finish her sentence; expand]

[expand, Machaon gives the sword to Stevie. and then add on more]

She takes a long, tattered breath. With each broken inhale and shattered exhale, she becomes weaker and weaker. But there is no pain. [expand]

[expand a lot here, Calypso, her family, stars, Calypso's stories and the sky, the church, Percy slowly getting drowsy]

She peers up at what should be the sky, the endless dark void expanding into infinity above her, and remembers what Calypso would tell her every evening on their spot overlooking the meadow and the night sky.

"Look up at the stars, and you will know that I am with you."

A tear scores down her face; there are no stars here.

take us back, oh take us back
oh take us, take us back
take us back, oh take us back
oh take us, take us back

. . .

table: fox.
lyrics: "take us back" [cover] by lizz robinett.
{powerplay of machaon approved by python}

[presto]

DELACROIX

[/presto]

"even stars burn out."

pogue
Graphics

1,890 POSTS

Pronouns: He/Him
last seen Oct 19, 2024 11:07:44 GMT -5

Is she trying to interrupt our henna session?

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 24, 2016 21:50:28 GMT -5

Quote

Post by pogue on Jun 24, 2016 21:50:28 GMT -5

Hey child, things are looking down.
That's okay, you don't need to win anyways.
Don't be afraid, just eat up all the gray
and it will fade all away.

filler for Achilles because im birthing a baby.

a food baby.

naming it Tage I think?? idk yet haven't figured it out.

the father is the pulled pork from this local eatery that we millenials affectionately refer to as "Springstreet".

my stomach hurts, is this what childbirth is like? @moms

by moms i mean nyte. total mom right there.

will fill this in later.

brad bradford ★ d5b [arx]
Retired Staff

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last seen Nov 4, 2024 18:47:44 GMT -5

literally so gay, doing so many crimes

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 24, 2016 21:55:54 GMT -5

Quote

Post by brad bradford ★ d5b [arx] on Jun 24, 2016 21:55:54 GMT -5

{ j u s t i c e }

once upon a time there was a fuckboy

he liked to pretend he didn't give a shit about anything or anyone

but he is just boy really

without the fuck

crying cause he scared

and a smol is bleeding to death

and Achilles has a strong grip

and then he goes back to pretending that he's a strong independent man

who is always dtf

sorry for this filler but day 2 is coming c':

i'll fill it in don't y'all worry

"I run on the road, long before I dance under the lights."

Python
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last seen Oct 27, 2024 23:26:22 GMT -5

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 24, 2016 22:00:14 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Python on Jun 24, 2016 22:00:14 GMT -5

[presto]

[/presto]

M A C H A O N .

Saving people.

That was familiar. It encompassed a hundred hopes and dreams that died years ago, when he donned his scrubs for the very first time and trudged through the first shift of hospice care. A women died that day. Nurses gathered around her bedside but there were no attempts to save her, for she was already withered, ill, and destined for death. The disease had finally taken its final toll, and that was the day a shadow had crept up beneath him. That shadow had grown and grown over the years, filling him with ice until he was numb.

Percy wanted to save Stevie, and it had worked. The cost was her future.

He knew he should’ve felt grateful for the brave feat. Stevie was probably alive because of her, but selflessness in the Games was arguably pointless. Only one of them would make it out alive. There had to be at least eight tributes here, gathered around a girl who sacrificed everything for nothing. Unless Stevie wins. He couldn’t see that lovable fool in a crown, but nothing was impossible. Anyone in this mourning circle of hell could walk out of this place with a crown, save for himself. He couldn’t imagine himself a murderer, a champion – just a corpse, however it happened.

Staring down at Percy – was this a glimpse into his own future? No, he wouldn’t be this loved.

The name Heathcliff Travers latched onto him. He had no idea who that was or what they looked like, nor was he hellbent on revenge. But it was knowledge, and knowledge sometimes meant power. It was important to know who in this arena was willing to murder a child without hesitation, a girl small enough to ride on his back or wrap herself around his leg in the training center. Cruelty at its finest could be found in many tributes, and they knew of one so far.

”I understand,” he said to her, even though he didn’t.

The weight of the sword grew heavy when her eyes found it. ”That’s mine,” she whispered, ”But it should be Stevie’s.” And he wasn’t about to argue with a dying girl. A sword was just a sword, and if it was symbolic of something else entirely then he didn’t want it. Let the gold belong to someone worthy, someone who might actually wield it better. He nodded and handed the sword over to his ally. ”My bad,” he muttered. He had always been awkward at funerals. The one eulogy he wrote had left him quivering in front of Lucia’s body, because he was not one to speak from the heart; not in front of strangers, who would never understand the truth in his words.

Last Edit: Jul 16, 2016 22:19:34 GMT -5 by Python

Kire
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thinking about thonking

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 24, 2016 22:03:26 GMT -5

Quote

Post by Kire on Jun 24, 2016 22:03:26 GMT -5

ROSS WOLFE

and the u n i o n is carved
from stone that is not to be halved
and the imprints of blood
call this l o v e

Filler to reserve this spot for later.

Something about rocks and screaming.

this is why silence is best

Mach. Mach. MACH. mach.

Percy.

and i join you in your walls
we realize our own f a u l t s
and as h e a r t s we go, we go
humbled, oh

. . .

lyrics: "union stone" by phildel.

On hills and waves on stormy days.

maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]
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4,677 POSTS

Pronouns: he/him
last seen Nov 1, 2024 16:42:16 GMT -5

oof

sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy Jun 24, 2016 22:04:42 GMT -5

Quote

Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Jun 24, 2016 22:04:42 GMT -5

A
T
L
A
S

fillering tbh idk what im putting here yet

a
a
a
a
a

a
aa
a
a

Last Edit: Jun 24, 2016 22:05:03 GMT -5 by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]

the m o o n controls the t i d e, it could cause you to d r o w n

new

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sinners and saints, it's the price we pay { ☀ } for percy

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jun 21, 2016 16:36:00 GMT -5

Post by pogue on Jun 22, 2016 0:37:44 GMT -5

Post by brad bradford ★ d5b [arx] on Jun 22, 2016 3:22:11 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jun 22, 2016 17:20:36 GMT -5

Post by Kire on Jun 22, 2016 21:24:01 GMT -5

Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Jun 22, 2016 22:03:44 GMT -5

Post by Deleted on Jun 22, 2016 22:49:54 GMT -5

Post by lucrezia eckhart d6f [tribsit] on Jun 22, 2016 23:33:34 GMT -5

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jun 23, 2016 4:54:37 GMT -5

Post by я𝑜𝓈𝑒 on Jun 23, 2016 15:26:24 GMT -5

Post by pogue on Jun 24, 2016 21:50:28 GMT -5

Post by brad bradford ★ d5b [arx] on Jun 24, 2016 21:55:54 GMT -5

Post by Python on Jun 24, 2016 22:00:14 GMT -5

Post by Kire on Jun 24, 2016 22:03:26 GMT -5

Post by maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte] on Jun 24, 2016 22:04:42 GMT -5

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