I was running, about to leave. Then I felt the knife behind me. I felt the knife cut through my hand. I fell to the ground, dazed. I felt the blood spewing out of me. I'm dying, I told myself. I didn't even do what I said I was going to do in the interveiws. I made a fool of myself for saying that, and then I die 3rd. I was to over-confident that I would survive the bloodbath. White specs began to blur my vision. I knew I wasn't going to make it. I want to live, but I won't, The girl from district 1 has disembodied my soul, my spirit.
Post by D9M Pisces Gem [Kaplan] on Oct 17, 2016 11:51:04 GMT -5
[googlefont="Nothing You Could Do:400"][googlefont="Boogaloo:400"]
Seeing someone that you care about take their last breath is a really hard thing to do. Rachel witnessed the death of Joselle, one of her allies, but had fled the scene by the time Kimmie died. Regret filled the girl from Two. She felt that she should have fought alongside Kimmie and helped save her, rather than running off for her own safety. Then again, only one tribute could come out alive, so saving Kimmie could have meant giving up her own life in exchange. Perhaps that was what prompted Rachel's last minute decision to run away from the bloodbath when she was so close to her own demise.
Rachel stayed close to the area of the cornucopia when she got away from the overly-large fight that was going on. Although, perhaps it wasn't the best idea that she had ever had. There were still other tributes around the area. She didn't want to leave Kimmie's body until it was airlifted out of the arena, though. She wanted to pay her respects to one of the girls she had so devastatingly failed to protect. Rachel hadn't managed to save her life, but maybe she could make it up to her after her death.
Approaching the body of her fallen ally, Rachel hoped that she was safe, trying her best to survey the area while she paid homage to her fellow tribute. She spoke to Kimmie, even though she knew the girl was long gone at this point. Perhaps Kimmie was listening from the afterlife, if such a thing existed. First, she knelt down next to Kimmie's body. She spoke softly when she did so.
"Kimmie, I'm sorry." began Rachel, "I wish I could have stayed to protect you and Joselle. You didn't deserve this fate."
At this point, Rachel had to brush a single tear off of her face.
"I'll try my best to win for you." was the promise made by the one remaining ally. She wanted to do what she could to avenge Kimmie's death, or at least make it mean something. Rachel then took the stuffed songbird that she had received, and gently lifted each of Kimmie's arms, wrapping them around the plush creature, like a child cuddling a teddy bear. "This is for you. You're safe, now, even if you're not here, alongside the living. You're safe in death." 389 Words Template credit to the wonderful Puppy! OOC: Rachel leaves the stuffed songbird with Kimmie's body
Post by D10f Myara Lowe [Avalon] on Oct 17, 2016 17:28:04 GMT -5
M Y A R A L O W E
She knew Saffron was looking over her - her guardian angel - the victor shined a spotlight on her like the main actress upon a stage. She shivered, it was cold in here once she entered, the same type of chills she felt back in the Capitol, but also not quite. It was physical, to the touch, and she felt it slither against her backside - it allowed her skin to form goosebumps and her hair to stand at its ends. Now, she felt the warmth of it all, and it was odd enough in such a place like this which beckons death - she'd been told all her life, 'death is cold, the embrace freezes to the bones at even the very simplest touch.' She would've believed it back in the Capitol, but now she felt the warmth of her guardian's light, and she welcomed it. ("It's cold in here -", "The temp is a 80 though -")
The Bloodbath flew with ease, sliding barely noticed, and a fresh wound was not to be found upon her. Though, this is where the real games start now, and she couldn't help but feel the signature surname stitched upon her tapestry painted a red, bulls eye target on her back. She hoped, however, that it wasn't the case. With that she'd grabbed Reese by the hand, the numbers had dwindled, and she could tell they became the targets - she couldn't tell if an axe had swung by her head or not, but it damn well felt like it at the moment upon their flee. Myara knew Saffron wouldn't be very pleased with ignoring her orders, she knew her cousin would like to have some words on how she 'risked her life and could've died', ultimately painting her face across the sky in an eerie blue once the anthem hit in the middle of the night. It signified the change in a day, from 1 to 2, 2 to 3, 3 to 4, and so on. Admittedly, she didn't expect to make it very far, because like the bird in the bird cage it was trapped without the help of forces that could only watch and wonder how such a helpless girl could manage.
The arena was a cage, the clock faced beneath it, one that no one could see, or hear tick-and-tock-and-tick-and-tock-and-, until the day passed and the church bells rung in the sound of the Capitol anthem. Her metaphors had quickly became a living reality, one in which she anticipated, she was the bird she trapped from her Private Session. 'She' shut and locked the cage just as the Game makers had locked her within these fields, another representation. Meanwhile, Mace and Saffron watched from the outside looking in. Myara sat upon the swing, and wondered. (If I hadn't left the session -) '- Did they leave the bird there to die?'
Post by steel campano | 8f | zoë on Oct 17, 2016 17:28:39 GMT -5
S A M I R A H A R T
Cannon-fire; heartbeats. I can't tell the difference.
BOOM! - feet against the floor and bracing for metal to puncture my skin and greet my insides from behind. BOOM! - matches lit in the center of my ribs, fire licks at my throat and spreads to the roof of my mouth and my ears and behind my eyes. BOOM! - flinching. BOOM! - I stumble, fall, hit the ground running.
Cannon-fire stops. My heart continues, somehow.
I descend to a greeting of dirt floor and silence, a hyper-real world masking the hell I just escaped. Flooded with sin, the aftershocks of destruction stagger through my limbs and I crumble, silently, heaving into the dusty ground.
Children disguised as angels in all of their vengeance, cursing me for trying to be one of them, purging me of my crimes against my own body. Child soldiers, facades, I decide then and there that I cannot trust anyone or anything. Thin white lines against my skin, scar tissue never healed, I've never been good at believing what my eyes tell me.
Rhythm of the night, an erratic heartbeat I swear is a beacon, I watch and wait in the silence for their reckoning to return. Somehow untouched, bracing to meet the inevitable version of myself bloodied and battered and bruised. Repentance lost long ago to the bodies dead on arrival, strewn across the Cornucopia floor. I feel sorry for them - and then I envy them.
My hands, of course, will not stop shaking.
Withdrawal meets panic and they scream. I don't dare follow suit. No noise, save for the conundrum in my head. My legs begin to tremble and I know this is it - my downfall, my hindrance, relapse that my body knows but my mind does not.
Delirium. I become it: shaking, heaving, spasms and tremours and panicked intakes of breath. I wait for the soldiers with invisible wings to return but this is reality, somehow, and I tilt at the blurred edge between it and a dreamworld. Everything is cold, cold, cold - my limbs are melting glaciers. Scorching, freezing, all at once. Hours, minutes, all at once. Violent and furious my body becomes and all I can do is watch and wait and think of them, Poppy and Paisley, my fixed points in a whirring, whirling world.
Eventually, the world becomes still. I with it. The soldiers still come for me, mere meters away. Painted red and white with their heads high they bask in all their tainted glory and with gritted teeth I do what I can (live) and do what I must (fight) and do what I have always done (survive.)
("Tell me - are you a fighter, or a survivor?")
The latter never felt so foreign.
T H E L I G H T B R I G A D E
sam attacks Rachel Violette ; spiked blunt 4SNHwJ70spiked blunt result
reroll spiked blunt [ 14126 -- DEEP GASH ON LEFT FOREARM -- 8.0 damage ]
Post by perdita leto ✾ 4f ✾ tris on Oct 17, 2016 17:36:39 GMT -5
P I L L A R F R A Y
She hovers in the area of the cabin, sitting in a crook of rocks that rise a distance away from the bridge. She's not hiding -- but she's not totally visible, and the safety she feels is enough for her to let down her walls and catch her breath. Empty parachutes are littered around her bare feet, swollen and a shade of red due to running in the provided stilettos. She pulls on a pair of sponsored combat boots with a sigh, just a slight wince that rushes across her features as the blisters on her heel rub against the soles. It only takes a few seconds for to pain to fade away once they're tied on and positioned, and she lends back with an exhale.
She looks like a mess of something pretty and terrifying -- custom made jacket wrapped around her shoulders, sent by her moon, and layers of armor here and there from sponsors she never thought she'd impress. A medal hangs around her neck -- it holds no purpose; just a legitimate medal from the Olympics, one that she's stared at many times but never received. It offers her comfort, not necessarily pride out of being an honorary gold medallist -- and it reminds her of herself. That little girl with dreams and a sense of adventure far too big for her body.
And it is a fragile place -- rocked by noise a few feet away, and she peeks out from her haven to see a group of people surrounding bodies. It's a fool's bravery that courses through her veins, but she grips her satchel and hooks the strap around herself as she rises up on tired legs. A hand picks up her sword that was leaning against the rocky outcrop as she makes her way out of the area, walking to the bridge on quiet legs and scanning the area.
She recognizes faces as she approaches -- the girls from Ten and Five, with the boy of Seven also making his way over. She remembers speaking to him, a kind young man with warm eyes, and there's a part of her that wants to see him again that leads her to get closer. Then she catches sight of the girl she had struck down during the bloodbath, watching as Samira Hart takes away the life of a body that hadn't yet been dead. The girl from Two falls, and part of Pillar Fray is chilled and shaken -- but there's blood on her hands, and now the girl from Five understands what she had felt. Part of her pities the elder tribute; the other is envious.
Post by d7m ☾ jj wolfram ☽ dars on Oct 17, 2016 17:54:29 GMT -5
R E E S E L AC H A N C E
"I am not a murderer."
"I am not a monster."
He said the words aloud to see if they hid the obvious truth. Over and over and over again, he waited for them to make him feel different, but the feeling never came. (Not yet.) He had just stood there amid the carnage and the chaos, watched as people tried to shove each other off the edge of the bridge.
No one had hurt him.
"I'm not dead."
He was still there, and he was running as fast as he could-- which was easier, after a little silver parachute had landed in front of him with a pair of matte leather boots. Even so, he was not in the same physical shape as the others, who made it look like running was a passion and he had no heart for it.
And then they saw them. The girl Pillar had killed, and the girl from Two.
The girl was angry: she had to have been. And she would have tried to kill them if they didn't kill her first, right? (Right?)
"We aren't monsters, guys!" He tried.
The voice laughed at him this time, as Samira delivered the final blow. It was hard to look away, even though it was the thing he wanted most. Samira was not a fucking monster. She was a girl doing what she could to survive. He would have done it too, if he were quick enough. He didn't care what his voice of reason told him.
"It's okay." he told her after a few seconds of silence.
"It's okay, Samira. You did what you had to do."
You did what we will all do.
He looked at the two dead girls and tears blurred his vision.
Post by cyro krane d11m [tom] on Oct 17, 2016 19:08:03 GMT -5
I'll make it through, but not this time
Your hope is gone, and so is mine
Clouded visions of blood surrounding him forces his mind to lose all coherent thinking. The bloodbath's bloodied fields makes him shake from inside of his body, even though his strikes weren't deadly, watching as one by one cards vanished from the hands of people around all of Panem. A bag, a sword, and a device that he soon learned to be a tape recorder. Loot from the bloodied fields of gore and violence. Death surrounds them with every deafening glare and Mitchell wants it to stop. He wants the red of the blood to vanish. He wants the bodies of Kimmie and Joselle to disappear. All he wants is to be home, safe in his bed with family, with Jasper, with the comfort of home, but this was his life. This was what the fake god of Ripred had put upon him. Nothing more than suffering and torture.
He would only become a shadow of a man that he used to be. A shadow who's hands would spread violence and blood upon the people he had grown to known within time. Canons sound in the distance. Loud booms of bodies that would be taken home to the families they belonged to. One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Three. Breathe. Three bodies that have been taken home in pieces, bloodied and broken like he was feeling inside. One unknown to him of who had fallen, but still a dead tribute with a deck that had ran out. The shadow of a man known as Mitchell Laws could care less of what happened with their dead bodies as they were gone from the world they lived within. Their bodies would become tombstones mourned by the few, remembered by the many.
The clouds above him wails with an echoing crack of sheer power. A wailing noise that sends him spiraling into his mind once again for comfort, but the voice above speaks like he would expect her to have sounded like. The gamemaker who hid behind her hands, avoiding every gaze of his. She didn't like him, but someone did, an eight proved that at least. An explanation comes as a combination of pens and other writing utensils falls from the sky with a raging storm. Devices that they would use to torture them later, Mitchell knew that. Nothing was sacred. Nothing was safe. There was only death and torture lurking every corner. The pen he picks up is just a plain one with ink that still would work like normal. Plain and useful, just like Mitchell Laws. All he can say in a silent calm is only two words, "Fuck this." His hand pushes the pen next to the tape recorder and he moves onward in his journey to find them.
They were out in the arena somewhere like himself. Jenoah, the wise guy of the group, who had told him to only threaten people within the arena, but that never had worked. Desimae, the girl whose hair was as fiery as her personality. She had told him that she could deal with her own problems and he truly believed she could. Then there was Asha, the Lumiere who peaked his interest in the way he moves and views the world. The boy could hide behind walls like Mitchell did, but he could see through it all. He could see through the walls that held the Lumiere together and pick him apart. These were the people he was looking for. These were the people he could lean on for support, through hell and back. As he pushes forward all he can help but to see is dark clouds above, pens laying about everywhere, and the blood that stuck itself inside his mind.
The skies above are clouded with the storm of pens that had once come and gone. The twinkling of metal and a white parachute floats gently down before him. A gift from the people who were watching him survive within the clouded, rocky, arena. The package carried three items. Three items that could mean life or death for Mitchell Laws. A water jug emerges first, his eyes stare at it as he twists the lid off to check inside. The disappointment that hits him shakes his body whole, empty just like his heart and sanity. No water for now and he tosses the jug in his bag, never to see it for the rest of the day. Item number two is a deck of playing cards with different images than the ones he used in the training center, instead of the capitol, the symbol of District Twelve rests upon the back, names of tributes from Twelve over the years line up under the symbol.
Name after name appear before him, just as he can remember the faces of the dead from games and reruns. Petra Vipointe. Cedric Lane. Celia Mortuus. Lemon Cake. Neptune Liefde. Chloe Angor. Names that echoed throughout the years of living in Panem. District Twelve's sacrificial list of kids they had sent into the games. His hand pulls out the pen as he writes upon the list adding himself to the back of the twelve of clubs, Mitchell Laws written in a black ink like the color of coal back home. The deck of cards gleam within the light of the clouded sky, each card with a face of the tributes he could think of. Sam Hart, the queen of clubs. Myara Lowe, the queen of diamonds. Torka Hammerfell, ace of clubs. Rolf Parks, ace of diamonds. Pillar Fray, the ace of hearts. And so many other names that he can't remember as he puts the deck within the confines of the bag that sits upon his waist.
The shiny glint of shin guards catches his eyes and he puts them on, imagining what he looked like. A rough looking man with spiked high heels, and shin guards to protect the muscles that he was working within the arena. The heels weren't his favorite part of the outfit, but he had to admit, they did wonders to his legs. And the first thought that's been normal in the entire time spent in the arena appears, I wonder if Jasper likes these atrocities? A chuckle escapes him for a second, even if there was no reason for him to be laughing out loud. If anyone was watching him, they'd think he's gone crazy already. They wouldn't be wrong, but they wouldn't be right either. Mitchell was changing every second in the arena and either way none of it mattered. Nothing matters in the arena, only life and death. Only survive or die.
The skies above continues with a clouded form, the arena seems eerily silent before him, as he was alone and had been wandering for what felt like forever, but could have been minutes. The outskirts of the cornucopia is where he notices them. Myara Lowe, queen of diamonds. Samira Sam Hart, queen of clubs. Reese LaChance, the black joker. Pillar Fray, ace of hearts. As he watches them from a distance, the tattoos upon his chest itch for a second. Memories of Myara Lowe and him getting the images upon themselves. Flowers for her. Elks for him. Sam Hart's threat and then her correction of name back in the Training Center. Pillar Fray, the younger girl who reminded him of his brother Carter. Reese LaChance, a boy who he had not met, but knew the name of from others. They were away still, but his eyes caught the next thing that happened.
A body of the girl that had once been Kimmie, the girl from Jenoah's district. Then a cannon fires again, eyes scan for the body, when he notices it's her. The two of hearts. She dies right before him and a sigh escapes his body for a second as he can feel a new peace for her. A life with no more tortures for them all. If he made it out, he would tell her father of her will to live. Even under extreme odds, Mitchell Laws would remember the girl who gave him the tools to realize why he needed to escape. And something in him turned, hard, like a feeling of guilt. The whole games was a game of live or die. Live or die. It echoed through his mind. That's when he decided to strike upon the girl with the floral tattoos. The girl whose cousin would kill him if he made it out of the arena. Too bad that he wouldn't be making it out alive as he was made to die.
His voice escapes as his hands hold the sword as his protector against them, "I'm sorry Myara. It's live or die in here." His heart pumps with blood, oxygen spreads through his body and the carbon dioxide leaves his body. The sword in his hands feels natural and he strikes forward with as much grace as he can in heels. It was live or die and Mitchell was going to live. Sorrows upon his heart, guilt upon his chest, a clouded mind, and he strikes forward, like the knight that he was going to become.
Inspired by the lovely Chelsey <3
(Attacks Myara Lowe with sword) pKUm3UDP200+1000 (miss)
(attacks Myara Lowe) 200+1000 (SC 3.5 left calf)200+1000�200+1000
Fleeing the bloodbath without a weapon was one of the smartest thing I've done. The Capitol will love me, they'll want to help me, and to top it off I have Zaya on my side. I promised her a kiss, and I won't break that promise. I'm going to win this. I know how. It's all I know. As I'm running something weird happens. A voice booms through the arena, and I'm shielding myself from falling pens and pencils. What in the world? Quickly shaking my head, I lift one up knowing I'll have to find a piece of paper from somewhere. A letter to home, to my family to let them know that I will see them again.
I keep moving forward when a parachute falls towards the ground addressed to me. I pick it up and inside is a knife, and a stick? What am I to do with a stupid stick? And some cool looking robes. Anything is better than what they have me in. I throw the robes around my shoulder, and I wrap my hand around the knife. I guess I'll keep the stick.
In the distance, I hear the sounds of fighting, and I want involved. I came here to fight. To carry myself forward. A cannon sounds, and I'm running forward. My eyes locked on the target. I tighten my grip tighter, but before I swing I stop. My eyes locked on the girl on the ground. My own district partner. Part of me wants to care that she's dead because she's from home, but it's one less tribute to look after in the games. It's one less person standing in my way of the crown. My eyes turn towards the Lowe girl. I lunge at her with my knife.
The shrill of terrified lunges echoes through the treeline. It had taken me a moment to get my bearings, but it was only a moment or two before I caught sight of them, and they were living, for the most part.
I noticed that Asha was bleeding parts of his body leaking crimson. I rushed over to his side and attempted to help him bandage some of his wounds that he was already fumbling to bandage. I see my hands shine with this ruby liquid and I cant help but feel my eyes widen at the amount of blood he seemed to be losing.
After a few short moments it seemed to subside, and I huff, he would make it, I hope.
"The hell with your finger huh?" I say jokingly, although it really wasn't all that funny.
We had only gotten a few moments of peace before our ears are again filled with shrieking. I swing around my left side and watch as a group of children strike down a girl mourning over her dead friend. I feel my face tighten...how unethical.
I watch as Mitchell is the first to rush into the blaze, his eyes filled with a fire I hadn't expected from a normally passive boy. His sword drives into what looks like the girl leg, but there is no blood, just the chink of armor radiating through my eardrum.
The boy from two, Torka, seems to rush into the fight as well. Perhaps he cared for his district partner more then I would have believed. I quickly follow up the two monster sized men and bring my axe down on her thigh. I am met with a warm sensation, it splatters along my arm, and watch as her face hardens.
"How'd that feel?" I say a rage burning behind my iris.
They had the audacity to strike down a girl at her lowest, was this what I was to become? As wretched as these demons laid out before me?
This is how it feels when you're bent and broken This is how it feels when your dignity's stolen When everything you love is leaving You hold on to what you believe in
My hand wraps tightly around the handle of the blade, and I'm looking around praying that nobody is following me - I got an early start, and I need to keep it. Someone had fell before I ran, and I didn't take the time to stop and look. It's a dangerous place, and one small mistake could cost me my life.
My entire body aches from these stupid shoes. My toes hurt, my heels hurt, my ankles hurt, my shins, my knees, my hips. Everything hurts. I've rolled my ankle I don't know how many times, and it's honestly a wonder I'm standing right now. Giving up isn't an option.
The sounds are gone, and I don't know where I'm going. My feet carry me one way while my heart and soul carry me another. My mind is at home wondering how my family is doing, it's reminding me why I'm alive, why I'm fighting. Hallow promises mean nothing, and Citadel is smarter than that. She knows the odds. She knows what can happen.
Cannons start sounding through the arena, and I know the bloodbath is finished. A sense of urgency crawls across my skin, and I'm moving as fast as I possibly can. Four cannons have sound, and it makes my heart break for just a moment - at least I'm alive. My chest rises and falls with each breath, a frantic beast hammers inside my chest. Only twenty of us are left inside this hell the Capitol has created.
Only nineteen more to go.
The clouds start to change, and despite not knowing what time of day it is, it gets dark inside. It's a little bit chilly, and I draw the sweater tighter around me. The sky turns dark, and then it opens with a loud crack! Pens are falling from the sky, and I'm trying to shield myself from them - What the devil is this?
Then a voice fills the air. Oh how I wish I could knock the piss out of this stupid gamemakers for doing what they have done. But I can send a letter home if I catch a delivery word - What is a delivery word? - or find the mail boxes in the granite flats. Citadel...
The pens and pencils go away, and they're covering the ground in front of me. They catch beneath the stupid heels, and I'm tumbling over again.
A stupid bird swoops down, and I'm swinging my weapon frantically trying to hold on. It's making a sound, and I wish it would go away before alerting someone of my location - I'm not ready to die, but I don't think I'll ever be. After a terrible assault it's taking off, and leaving something behind. My hand wraps around the fragile sheet of paper, and a single pen provided by the Capitol.
She's all I can think about. Returning home for her. Killing people for her. Surviving for her. She's the reason I'll wake up every morning to carry on. She's the reason I'll keep going through it all. A promise can't be broken, it's how my entire life has been lived. It's all my aunt taught me. "Never break promises, and never make promises you can't keep."
But this promise was one with the powers of keeping. "I promise to remain strong. Always."
Yet it isn't enough to save me now.
Taking off running as fast as I can, my legs are giving out, and I know I can't go much further. Shelter is needed, and maybe something for water. Something to quench the never ending thirst. Despite having a drink this morning, my mouth is dry, and my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth. It's terrible. I'm not far from the cornucopia - I need to get further.
My grip tightens on the weapon, and a man appears in the distance. Each breath catches in the back of my throat - Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Sneaking forward as carefully as possible, I'm about to swing when I realize it's Torka, and he's got his eyes on something. I refuse to speak to him out of fear he'll see me as a threat, and I'm following after him. Another cannon sounds, and my hear leaps into the back of my throat.
We're all going to die.
I can hear noises, and Torka is running forward. I see a girl lying on the ground, four people gathered around. The closer I get I realize she's from two - Torka
I lift the weapon into the air, and swing at one standing by.
Mason, his brother, allied with Chaske, my brother. We have a bond many can't understand, and I feel Torka doesn't even know. But he's my brother because of Mason.
I cannot let this stand.
Table by Puppy
Rolf attacks Myara | glaive Os5N062Mglaive
[result: 13118 -- Shallow Cut on Right Hip -- 3.5 damage]glaive
I don’t think I ever want to experience such a thing as the bloodbath ever again. Four cannons sounded one after the other, all the lives taken by careers, one by my own ally. My District partner, one of the names to be thrown into the pile of the dead, soon mine will join her. Whoever I hit…I know it was two different males, I don’t think I injured them. One did die though but fortunately, it was not by my own hand. But if you want to get out of this Jenoah, you’re going to have to take a life yourself. I keep telling myself that and well, it pains me even further.
Somehow I was capable of gathering two items, a weapon and a bag, the weapon seemly overpowering to my own taste. Unfortunately I had to remove the razor blades from my peak before it was eligible to become a token. I can injure people easily, especially if they come raging at me with the swords that I saw in that bloodbath but will I really be able to take their lives? It will be one question that will follow me until the moment that it will be necessary to ask. That one thing will be lingering in my head until I take someone’s last breath or I take my own. Is my destiny to be a murderer? Many back home will say yes because I’ve already met the quota for it just…I got someone else to take those lives for me and is that as bad as taking one myself? I don’t know and I don’t know who to ask.
Ripred has obviously abandoned me in this arena; this must be the place where he drops off unwanted disciples. I tried my best to stick by his ways, I did as my father told me and well obviously, that wasn’t enough. Maybe Ripred just wants people roaming his land who have a destiny, I may just not have one. I may just be destined to be nothing. But that is a destiny Jenoah. Not a very good one though.
Before the inferno took mother, she always used to say ”Nobody has their life planned, we’re all leaves blowing in the wind aimlessly, landing wherever the breeze take us.” If only she was here to back up that theory. Now I have to stick by father’s belief. Only her quote can help me with my questions but it isn’t enough evidence and well father’s beliefs will just have to be the one I believe. He is…was the only authority figure in my life, the one who gave me my thoughts and opinions…well some of them. I’ll probably never see him again, maybe I could rebel, in these final minutes? Who am I even talking to.
I’ve been wandering aimlessly with just my thoughts as company. When I fled the bloodbath, I had Asha in my sights but he vanished before I could reach him. Walking in these heels has somewhat become natural for me, I haven’t tried to properly run in them yet and I really daren’t I can’t ditch them otherwise I’ll be walking around barefoot but I could try and pry the heel off. Who even decided to make us wear these anyway? Those Capitolites are rather strange in their ways, it was probably to add entertainment for the show. Tributes stumbling about, carelessly breaking their necks because of the ridiculous footwear.
Looking to the direction of the cornucopia, there is still no sign of Asha, Mitchell and Desimae but it seems the bloodbath hasn’t official ended yet. A group of tributes surround the District Two girl…and there is more…there is Asha.
For the first time, I push my feet forwards, hoping these damn heels don’t drag my body to the ground. Reaching the group, quick communication with the others indicate an un-ethical attack on a peaceful moment for the poor District Two girl. Ethical? Do I even know the word.
And look what I’ve done now.
Thrown myself into an avoidable fight.
”I am sorry Samira.” But one of us is going to have to fall, even after that amazing kiss. I just hope it isn’t by my hand.
Post by Daemon Lazre D6M [Kire] on Oct 17, 2016 19:09:08 GMT -5
He was all geared up now, donned in armor and weapons that they had acquired by Ripred's grace. Standing off a distance from the others, he took in the emptiness around him. This was broken by the sound of screaming from a short distance away.
His eyes locked immediately on his district partner. The girl from hell was standing over the body of another. The scene was clear, just as the fresh blood was clear even against that which had been spent not that long before. One girl was killed by the body of another, an ally perhaps. Myara and her group had interrupted the goodbyes of two fellow tributes. Ripred's blessing would have trouble reaching someone who had not been let go first. With both of their spirits having not been commended to the god they would struggle to find the afterlife.
This had been the devil-girl's plan all along. He had known she was full of temptation and sin all along, but now he was beginning to see the darkness that truly lingered in her.
Ripred, bless this spear for I will use it to banish the sinful. Let me cleanse this arena of those who take advantage of the weak. Let me, Father, see to the girls who had died. I wish for them to, in death, be shown a mercy they hadn't seen in life.
He hefted his spear and looked to the others. Hyacinth and Mordecai had their backs turned, but Bolts had been watching. With a look, he knew the other boy was on the same path as he. There was a time when even he would have to get his hands dirty for the sake of Ripred. This was such a time.
Attacks Samira Hart with spear Wf8FCptFspear Shallow Cut on Left Calf -- 3.5 damage
It almost angers me. A double miss with nothing left to give. I had a chance for a kill, but something happened. Maybe it was the swarm of other tributes prancing in to fight these people. Yeah, I'll go with that. I take a step back for a moment watching what happens. Tiny streams of blood leak from the freshly carved bodies. I've been training for this all my life. Doing whatever I can to make sure I'm still alive. But it is weird standing here inside the arena missing like I'm some foolish kid.
Somewhere along the lines, Rolf found me, and I'm glad he's still alive because I can use him to the end. I can shield myself behind him, keep him alive until it's finally time to discard him to the side. I can't hide the grin twisting across my face despite looking at Rachel's body on the ground. Just one less person. That's all it is, and I wish I had some way of protecting her. But I didn't. And I'm alive, and she's not, and I'm going to stay alive because I'm the only one who can bring the honor back to district two.
Tightening my grip on the knife again, I turn towards another girl. A target. Someone to kill. Someone who I can make feel pain even if it's just temporary. I've always been one to kill without making people suffer. Some may beg to differ, but it's the truth. Only two people have suffered by my hand. I could always make it a third especially if they made her suffer. I hope it was quick and easy. I hope she didn't feel much pain, but even I doubt that. I want to kill, I want to win, and to do that I attack.
Who would have thought tranquility could be so ashen?
Head thrown back in silent laughter, my eyes are wide in the face of a grey sky that stares straight back. No scream dies in my throat when I look down and see a grey stump in the place of my ring finger; there was no commitment to be found in my veins anyway. Seconds blur into minutes and minutes are quick to pass under the grey sky. Each moment is a ticking time bomb awaiting the detonation of all tranquility I once held onto with loose desperation. Every second that passes, is another second left staring at the grey ground. One blink, two blinks, three-
A swear, a scream dies in my throat; I do not dare blink a third time. ('Where is the method to your madness?) Answer, there was no method but there was still infinite madness. But this time, not a single plate shattered - it was a live skull and all. Opportunity stared into my soul and I smiled and danced with the reaper, blackened scythe and all. One numb heart beat lost in the indistinguishable wind (wasted) and I struck out. The only thing that could hold me back was the weight of my searing silver chains.
And for a moment, they shattered like her pretty little skull.
('Where is the method to your madness?)
Answer, there was no reasoning or method; I swore I would paint my monochrome world red. One rapid heartbeat blurred into one hundred and freedom was no loner a concept, but a reality. In the face of searing silver chains, my flesh may as well have been obsidian. After she crumpled to the ground, I did not care to watch the essence of her fear and agony morph into failure. In that moment, she became a key to the locks I had made for myself. Every label represented by a searing silver chain shattered in a single blow. Break the locks and lose the definition of undefined. In the face of labels and residing on a spectrum of absolutes; I no longer felt like a shade of grey. Break the locks to lose the definition of undefined; a deal with the reaper seems like a fair deal to me now.
Look at the name Asha Lumiere and you see killer. I think I prefer the term monster.
I look down to the blade and I scowl at the way she's judging me. "Your body was a cage, this is me... setting you free," I say to her blade; she's my key now. Lies of course, I only cared about setting myself free. I smile in the face of my mouthful of lies. I did not care if she would be set free - I do not even know her name.
I came here to set myself free, but where is the red?
Between the millionth undefined heartbeat and the next, I had lost sight of red altogether. They spat in my face and told me I'd never make something beautiful, it made sense, I only ever saw the world in shades of grey I managed to smile in the face of it, acceptance of the realization that only I could see the beauty in a shade of grey came not long after I turned eight.
I cannot smile in the face of my new ashen reality.
Heavy feet guide me across this sturdy terrain, my mind does not piece together that I've only done a full circle around outskirts the cornucopia until I spot them. Confidence does not shatter at the prospects of losing another piece of myself; however, the seconds untill the end of tranquility still ticks down. I grip the hilt of my falchion tight between my fingers, heavy footsteps quickening into a jog between each set of rapid numb heartbeats. "Give me something." I dare whisper to her, looking down at the key to my freedom clutched in my hand.
Counting down the final seconds of tranquility, I lose sight of the beginning of the end.
No time for hesitation or a second thought for my uninjured allies. I spot the definition of tranquility itself in Samira Hart, bloodied war hammer clutched at her side and blonde curls falling from the top of her scalp. She stands there, clad in grey, and another mockery to my injuries. I do not dare shrivel under the memory of that night on the rooftop (we spoke together) or let my steps stutter in the face of the final moments of the tranquility I held onto with loose desperation. Seconds tick on the clock, I do not even think to protect myself from detonation.
I'll break even more locks to lose the definition of undefined; a dance with the reaper's scythe is a moment I lick my lips for. Clutching the key to the locks in my uninjured hand, the jaws of the beast already thirst for her blood. The thought of a funeral does not pass through my mind, I lunge and the steel simply flashes in the sunlight. Break the chains.
In the face of grief for a color I lusted for when I willingly held the reaper's scythe to my throat, I can only hope the final detonation of ashen tranquility is bloody.
Inspired by the lovely Chelsey <3
Last Edit: Oct 19, 2016 11:59:26 GMT -5 by kousei ♚