(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4

D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]
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(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 22, 2018 16:35:22 GMT -5

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Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jul 22, 2018 16:35:22 GMT -5

Skyward; the sun rests once again and gives birth to the bleak darkness above. The aura of a broken paradise begins to fade into the night and we lie in the silence, our thoughts guided only by the flickering of tiny specks above. And my eyes desperately try to connect the insignificant dots into something bigger, something better than the mess of glitter I see above — but my imagination fails me, and it falls victim to the monsters which lurk in the darkest of shadows.

When the anthem plays overhead, I imagine the worst deaths for the lost. Severed limbs and broken bones, stomped and kicked and beaten until you don't even turn blue and your soul just goes straight to black. In the night, anything is possible; nightmares seem to be a given in this arena, despite its fairy tale nature that gives the illusion of paradise. I convince myself that the lost boys and girls who burn into the sky had the worst, because then it means that if I'm to see anything that makes a soul cower in fear, it means I'm ready.

The moon soon takes centre stage above, and now the sky is only freckled with stars. Heaven seems a world away from here, and hell seems closer than ever before. As we teeter between one day and the next, we drift into greater tension than before — midnight can mean free reign for death over life; hunters follow cries for help only to respond with a bleed for brutality.

Tonight, it isn't responsibility that keeps me awake. Zion proved himself to be more than capable when the time calls for it; an internal fear of himself that when projected amassed to the murder of the external. No, it isn't responsibility, rather adrenaline mixed with anticipation of what lies ahead. Just like how I had taken my past and bent it into armour, I take my experiences here and knock them into shape, piecing together the puzzle of my present self. Always changing so that I can always be stronger despite and in spite of what I have been through.

I change because it is a must — I have to remind people they don't know who or what Cassia Oretio is.

History is always changing too, but the unwritten now keeps my claws out and reminds me that I am a wolf in wolf's clothing; I fight because I want to fight. I fight because I want to win. And though there are still parts of me that are obligated to feel guilty for that, as if selfishness in life or death scenarios isn't allowed because there will always be someone worse off than you, I recall feeling that fire in my stomach and promising myself to burn. Fragile femininity became fierceness, and that is where I should be finding my pride.

Staring off, I collect myself again when Zion takes a shot from the dreamworld and it goes in deep; he's up and out. Whilst I trust him to be alone, I want to go with him because he is the only company I have still; perhaps the only friend I've had in years and the only person I've been able to get somewhat real with throughout this entire experience. I don't take that for granted, and I realise that in the Hunger Games, you fight, you don't make friends — but still, I care about him, and I care about my sanity.

We wander and we wonder until I raise my head like a child to her mother, ready to see in the new dawn. Streaks of ripened orange and yellow flush through the sky, and I feel the energy from above in the ground beneath my feet. Mother Nature's gift to us all is a positive attitude, and today, I reap what she has sown.

A radiant path lies ahead and I follow the light, unaware that there is a growing shadow behind me.

So we wade onward, finding ourselves in muddier land that threatens to steal our shoes if we aren't careful. The distant choral voices of crickets rings through the air and it adds calm to the scene. I hum along to the tune of my own song, stepping through the tracks of a large creature. The small creek beside our path looks full of mist and souls; as if all the fallen had fallen into the water, capturing their voices and colours and forcing them to spit every last word out before setting them free.

"Stay close," I tell him because we've come this far and I'm not losing him this easily. "It looks like a river of souls." A strangle of water — it threatens danger and sings its own song that is much darker than that of any raven, but I'm not scared.

We tread, and then there is a rustle. An echo from afar that is louder than the calls of the crickets and bugs, and it sets alarm bells ringing. I keep Zion close, my hand darting to the handle of my club because I have been anticipating this moment since last night. Danger is what I thrive on: I can show my teeth and get into the nitty-gritty of survival and lose myself in the bloodshed, even if it is just for a minute.

I think back to what Stella told me. I told her that it would be hard in here but that I'm harder, and she said that I have to win the love, win the praise and win the money. A small girl emerges from the other side of the shore and in her, I see that same fragility I saw in the mirror years ago: potential, spark but no fire.

If things were different, I'd tell her to burn as bright as possible. But things are what they are and that is one thing that won't change, no matter how many times anyone wishes or wills it to happen; I look at her with sorry eyes, I look at her with eyes that hold prisoner the brute thoughts of a girl who just wants to stay alive and grow old and be normal and be happy.

Her friend comes too and he's older, and part of me breathes a sigh of relief because it means I don't have to show the world I'm entirely heartless by willing death onto a girl. I look to the two of them and then across to Zion and there's a pit in my stomach because I know that we have no choice.

"Nine," I say, a mutter under my breath. "They are both from Nine." Nine must be hurting right now.

But Five is too, and so is Twelve; I tighten my grip and look inside to the source of my pride, finding safety in the pulling of my own trigger.

[ cassia oretio d12f attacks kristian ognyanov d9m ; spiked blunt ]

LQL_6IvGspiked blunt

[ stabbed in bicep +8.5 damage, +1 strength ]

[ title credit to trigger by lady gaga ]

spiked blunt

Last Edit: Jul 22, 2018 16:38:20 GMT -5 by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]

L△LIA
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BOOM SH△KALAKA

(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 23, 2018 16:21:49 GMT -5

Quote

Post by L△LIA on Jul 23, 2018 16:21:49 GMT -5

[attr="class","Zion1Container"]

[attr="class","Zion1Title"]save me from myself
i've been in the dark too long

[attr="class","Zion1Content"]

Dying isn’t new. Since the world itself was born from nothing and the oceans pulled themselves together out of air and the sky held its own hands in order to encircle the earth and cradle everything new into each confusing trial of night, there has always been death. Zion has witnessed many creatures seek his sister out to expel their final breaths at her feet, neither child ever fully knowing why, but this is the first time something has given him it’s last breath. It isn’t the same because Denali never killed anything, they just died because it was their time, but Zion killed that monster. Even the beasts Cassia finished off the day before weren’t like this. Of course they would fall against her, but Zion’s hands know nothing of slaughterhouses or sending souls to worlds beyond this.

He killed it. He killed it. Oh gosh, he hacked it to pieces and killed it.

He thinks he doesn’t dream. Everything feels still and sleepless except for the breeze tip-toeing across his cheeks. All there is is this deep, unyielding grief for what he has done, wringing his eyes dry and useless. The night is long and endless and endless and endless and he is hollow to the point of praying for sleep, knowing what that always means for him and yet desperate for even such a cruel escape as his nightmares. He thinks he doesn’t dream and so he thinks he doesn’t sleep until his eyelashes flutter against the ocean breeze. Perched upon a rock that he doesn’t remember, he sees the water and knows that the worst thing that has ever happened within his mind is not a false terror, but the simple truth of what he has consciously done, what he is supposed to continue to do.

Releasing himself to the water, he gives his body to the waves and hopes the ocean will swallow him whole. Coward. The powers that be have no intention of allowing him such an easy escape as suicide and soon enough he is spit up onto a new shoreline, unfamiliar and alone. Cassia deserves better than me, deserves better than this. There is hope within him that she won’t follow, but he feels a tug in his gut that knows better, as if an invisible thread has been tied to his belly button with the other end given as a leash wrapped in her hand. Who else do you have?

No one.

Far away, Denali has finally stopped screaming and clawing at everything within arms reach. She is deadly silent and spends her nights as sleepless as Zion feels, unable to turn her face from the television screen. This behavior is one part desperate fear for her brother’s life and one part inconsolable depression that watching footage of him drifting on a distant ocean is the closest they will ever be again. She bites violently into her own knees to stifle any sound of crying and traces her fingertips over the screen, pretending that the wind tousling Zion’s hair is really her and knowing he is pretending the same. It will be over soon, she promises his pain, feeling it within the jagged half-moon wounds upon her knees. Like all dead things she has ever known, in the end her brother will come back to her, his sallow cheek upon her hand.

In the hush of a dawn as red as his watchful sister’s bloodshot eyes, Zion huddles on a patch of grass at the top of the shore and pulls the stash of gifted makeup from his rucksack. Unskilled fingers attempt to pretty his face in hopes of tricking the people he loves most out of being sad when the next round of wounds finds him. The saltwater has washed the blood from his bunny pajamas and he touches up the matching velvet that was applied to the tip of his nose before coming into the arena. The childish blush on his cheeks. The cheerful pastel shimmer upon his eyelids. The glitter-flecked bronze of his lashes. It was all meant to be a ruse, but the makeup makes him feel more honest about himself again. This is who he is, a glittery pink bunny, not a warrior.

A melodic humming snares his attention and he feels his spine straighten as if the thread has been tugged. “Stay close,” Cassia tells him while looking onward instead of down upon him, but it doesn’t feel like being told off. She says it as if he’d simply not been told and it’s not his fault he didn’t know better than to wander off. This could be the first time. Hers is the voice of mothers speaking to their children, wanting only to keep them safe, forgiving all their trouble without being asked. It brings him obediently to his feet and makes him want to kiss her cheek and ask if she would hold his hand. That would feel nice. “It looks like a river of souls.”

There is a place where water meets water and suddenly wonders who it has become. River? Ocean? One pours itself into the other and names become lost. Here, what has been lost is even more difficult to define, as faces turn into hands turn into knees turn into shoulders turn into confusion in the mist. Zion worries at his lower lip, trying to count the ethereal bodies, trying to listen in case one of them remembers how to whisper their name. He should help them, he should —

Reaching out toward the river, Cassia calls him back and her words are a blur, but they have been attacked by beasts enough that his hand reaches automatically for a weapon. The glimmering black scaled spear lashed to the side of his pack comes free almost as easily as it moves through the air itself. Zion focuses on his grip, on watching out for the girl who keeps watching out for him even when he stops watching out for himself. He does not look to see the beast they’ve encountered, not until it’s too late to alter his aim.

Nine. They are both from Nine. The mist, it echoes.

This should not feel new, but the sight of the other boy’s face as he is attacked seizes Zion by the soul and it turns him inside out.

Paper Mache Iris Lune.

[Zion attacks Kristian, fishing spear]

GlhPwT0vspear

[3004 // Stabbed in Back — 9.0 damage]

[newclass=".Zion1Container"]width:450px; height:450px; background-position:center; background-repeat: no-repeat; padding:20px;[/newclass]
[newclass=".Zion1Title"]font-size:10px; text-transform:uppercase; margin-right:65px; margin-bottom:1px; [/newclass]
[newclass=".Zion1Content"]width:300px; height:0px; overflow:hidden; opacity:0.8; font-size:10px; text-align:justify; padding:1px 10px 0px 10px; -webkit-transition-duration:1s; transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]
[newclass=".Zion1Container:hover .Zion1Content"]height:250px; overflow:auto; padding:10px; text-align:justify; -webkit-transition-duration:1s;transition-duration:1s; -moz-transition-duration:1s; [/newclass]spear

Last Edit: Jul 23, 2018 16:26:21 GMT -5 by L△LIA

( C H A R A C T E R S )

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back for tha summer

(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 24, 2018 16:47:09 GMT -5

Quote

Post by flyss on Jul 24, 2018 16:47:09 GMT -5

[googlefont=raleway]

"You did the best you could, 'Tunia, and Ripred knows that. So stop this silly stuff, and get yourself in the other room with the rest of us."

There was a time, in the weeks followin' Scotch's death, that I was real mad. My hands would turn into fists, my playful jokin' into fits, and I spent more time fumin' in my garden than I did tendin' to it.

My momma would always ask what's wrong, her voice gentle enough to make me wanna say, but I'd just go dead silent, refusin' to answer nothin' anyways. I knew it wasn't right to do that to her, 'cause daddy'd hear about it and shake his head real slow in that disappointed, judgey way. But I didn't feel like talkin' none. They knew that.

They also knew why I felt like that, and they did their best to fix it. "Honey you know it wasn't your fault," they'd say, but I knew better. I was an angel, but I wasn't doin' much of my angel duties; how could it not be my fault? I remember runnin' off into the rows of grain just like I'd done when I was little, hopin' that maybe I'd get lost again and they wouldn't find me this time. But my auntie saw me go in and made me come out not even a few minutes later. She was just as angry then as I'd been for the past weeks... and I didn't feel so alone no more.

We just sat on the edge of the grass for a long while, with her pettin' my hair and me tryin' not to let her know I was feelin' any different. The breeze was soft, barely strong enough to brush my bangs from off my face, but it felt real good.

"Do you think I should've done anythin' different?" I asked her while not lookin' any particular direction, abandonin' the idea that I could keep my thoughts secret. She kept quiet for a minute, then two minutes, before she said anythin' back to me.

"I dunno." Aunt Daisy's anger had long since disappeared and it showed in her voice a lot, but even a blind man could tell ya that she didn't have a clue of what to do with me-- her confusion 'bout it all was obvious.

"You think I could've done anythin' different?" I asked again, my voice quieter than it'd been before, testin' out the waters to see if my momma's sister was gonna give me anythin' much of an answer or if she was just gonna string me along. I didn't care much what she did, 'cause momma'd just tell me herself in a bit... but part of me still wanted to hear it right them.

"No, I don't," she replied immediately after I was done talkin', her arm grabbin' at my side to pull me close until I was right up against her chest. "But why do you get so hard on yourself, anyways, Petunia? Ripred was the one that let that happen, not you, so why aren't you mad at him instead?" I could tell her words were pointed and I didn't know what to say in reply, so I just stood up and turned around. My eyes were wide and brimmin'with red hot tears as I stared at her, the calm I'd worked so hard to get right then gone within seconds.

""Cause he didn't do nothin' wrong!" I shouted back her way, wonderin' why such a powerful woman would question the way things worked like that. "But I did! I did everythin' real, real wrong, and Scotchie died 'cause of it." I could barely speak by then, my tongue chokin' over words left and right, but I knew that I couldn't stop, either. "I'm hard on myself 'cause I gotta be... angels are big and strong..." I paused, thinkin' about exactly what I wanted to say. "And I'm not either of those yet.

"But I'm gonna be... you just wait and see! And I'll avenge him better than you probably think I even can... and-- and Ripred will be real proud, too." Aunt Daisy just smiled and shrugged, standin' up to join me as if I were just gettin' up to leave, not gettin' up to yell.

"Sure thing," she replied, retyin' her dress behind her back with one hand while pattin' me on the noggin with the other. "Now, let's get back to the house and eat so you can get right on that."

For some reason, it didn't feel like she was takin' me serious...

She wasn't the first, and she wouldn't be the last.

-

I spend most of the night thinkin' 'bout how Gabriel looked when he fell and how the Coyote from that afternoon looked the same when he fell... even though they weren't nothin' alike. We're all finite, I remind myself, usin' my momma's big kid words just like I would back home. I repeat the phrase a million times more in my head 'til it loses all its meanin', and then I say it a million times more under my breath just to make sure that I won't forget it.

Kristian must be real annoyed with me by now, I think. But I don't say nothin' and neither does he; we just enjoy the campfire that I'd set, each of our hands busy boilin' water so our bodies would shut up about bein' thirsty. He let's me rebandage some of his wounds when we're done, but that's as far as our contact goes.

I decide to go to sleep early, the effects of whatever had me seein' what I saw earlier makin' me tired hours before I'd planned to be. Tryin' to crack as few branches as possible, I lay my backpack down on the leaf-covered floor as a makeshift pillow; within minutes, I'm long gone. The anthem hasn't even played yet.

-

When I wake up, the first thing I see is Kristian squattin' off to my left side side, his hands busy gatherin' up his stuff in preparation for leavin' soon. "Mmhgph." I grumble slightly as I force myself up, hopin' that he'll notice me and hold back a bit-- wiithin two minutes, I'm standin' a few feet to the front. My hands shake nervously on the hilt of my sword, but I pretend not to notice.

We walk for a while, feet takin' us in the opposite direction of where we'd been day two, and the scenery becomes drastically different to reflect this change. Around us, a thick fog rises to our thighs, taperin' off to the sky like the grounded clouds I was taught them to be. Quickly, I become wary of what might dare to hide where we can't see... critters, mutts, or even worse...

I hope the other tributes know better.

~~We sure don't.~~

Before long, I spot movin' figures on the opposite shore, and I assume it to be a part of the mist... maybe the weird stuff from yesterday was still makin' me feel bad. It couldn't be, though, because as we crossed over to the other side, I could only see what it was clearer.

It was the boy from five and--

and the girl from twelve. Gabriel's district partner. I silently wonder if she know's what's happened to him, but that's a stupid question 'cause his face was blasted a mile high in the sky that night. There was no way she could've gotten around that, yet still... I wonder if she really knew him.

I think about the way I never knew Kristian before but how we're friends now-- maybe it was like that. Or maybe they just exchanged a few words on the train and left it there. It didn't matter much, though, because they weren't worryin' about me in the same way I'm was worryin' about them-- no. In fact, they had already done the opposite, sinkin' their weapons deep into the flesh of my ally.

Of my district partner.

Sick... sick... I feel sick, I think, stumblin' back, part of me wantin' to run and part of me knowin' that I can't. I'd already decided that this is where I'll stay; savin' Kristian is my last chance to prove that I'm strong, and I can't let it go that easily. So I grip my sword tighter and hope that they can't see how scared I am.

Sorry, district twelve. I couldn't save the last one and I don't think I'll be savin' this one, either.

With one final glance at the both of them, I hoist the blade above my head and swing.

[Petunia attacks Cassia with her sword.]

Jgx5IRTMsword

1092 -- Shallow Cut on Neck -- 4.0 damage

(Sword)

sword

Last Edit: Jul 24, 2018 19:53:27 GMT -5 by flyss

Credit: Shrimp

Credit: Avalon

"I could have been so much more than just Neptune.
I could have been a whole damn
galaxy."

thompson harvard - d2b - arc
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(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 25, 2018 16:38:38 GMT -5

Quote

Post by thompson harvard - d2b - arc on Jul 25, 2018 16:38:38 GMT -5

My night was only brightened by the cackle and crackle of the fire staring us down. My mind was empty as a canvas.

Blank.

I didn't know what to think, didn't know what to do. The sight of Dakota's head attached to this four legged crawling creature produced in hurt was burned into my mind. An animal, and a being designed and formatted to live off of our pain and dying. Dakota being my killer was to no surprise, however. She's been killing me the past five years and she wasn't even here.

Eating away at my mindset. My happiness. The one voice in my head that would send me sprinting around the district morning and night looking for something to do. I was ready to take on the world with arms open and smile whiter than the clouds in the sky. She was the reason I secluded myself from everyone, because somehow, she had convinced me that her pain was mine too.

The majority of her pain died; the rest of it flew into my body as if I had inhaled them myself. Like a toxin. Turning those feelings of joy and willingness to go out and talk to new people to rust. Every time I speak to someone new I feel like I'm a motor with no oil. Sputtering to get out those few words and then falling back to it's staid, useless spot. So I don't speak. I rarely do; I rarely plan on it. Keeping my words to myself and only sharing them when needed. That's the effect of Dakota. I was so scared, so thrown off by the fact that words can be so powerful against someone that I didn't want mine to mean anything to them.

I sat there that night, watching the fire dance and tango with the wind. The light crack or pop of the fire the only thing in the air that I could hear. Petunia was sat next to the fire as well, staring at it just like me. We sat there in silence. She was deep in thought about something; her eyes showing some faint, dream-like look.

{"we are finite"}

Her voice speaks out, small. Like she was coming to this realization of sorts and had unintentionally spoke it out loud. I didn't think of it, thought. The word was larger than I had ever expected her to use, and one that I hadn't heard of before. I kept my mouth shut per usual about it.

She wrapped my wound up real quick, and my night fell to darkness.

My morning routine wasn’t disrupted by anything out of the usual. Get up, pack my shit, leave. Petunia let out a grumble upon being awake and seeing that I had already been prepared to leave. We were like two siblings attached at the hip who isn’t allowed to leave each other. Getting everything together was easy, and our feet led the direction to whatever battle we had to face today.

They took us into the opposite direction of where we were day two; the ground almost enveloped by the foggy cloud that wraps around every tree and particle in sight. It was unsettling, really. My sight was worsened as we got thicker and thicker into whatever cloud this was. Maybe that was the goal. Take us from hallucinating to being so blind that you don’t even know where you’re swinging.

The shore across from us had figures- shadows moving quickly as if they were some hologram placed in the fog. It looked unreal for a second. It was almost like the hallucinations from yesterday were lingering, and my mind was on autopilot mode. The hairs on my arm rose to a point. We continued moving, crossing over to find ourselves facing the girl from five and the girl from twelve. Gabriel’s partner. It sucks that she had to face us without her partner, and hopefully Petunia or I don’t leave without ours.

Before I can even make out that thought, they leap at the chance to attack me and the attacks are almost like a simple papercut by now. It wasn’t anything much, though the blood leaking out from them said otherwise. It was just a scratch. Nothing too bad.

And as quick as they attack, Petunia went after Gabriel’s partner without a second thought of what she was doing. Without second thought, I followed in pursuit. It didn't hurt to swing. My pain was small, my scars were large.

Hopefully my scars were my strength in what felt like the last battle of my life.

[ russian maniac ]

[attacks cassia, axe.]
ep4DN_ukaxe
[result]

axe

D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]
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(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 25, 2018 17:30:53 GMT -5

Quote

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jul 25, 2018 17:30:53 GMT -5

Like a moth drawn to a flame, I am a sucker for pain.

The heavens above close for the time being, grey overhead as if to shield the sun from the deadly scenes that dare to taint her light. Our darkness burns brighter now, and I am thankful for that; I'd never have made it this far through encouraging my weakness to take centre stage and sweat under the light of a thousand stars and cameras. The darkness is all I can have, it is all I can hold — other than a hardened heart that I have pulled directly from my chest to prove my worth, to prove my brutality.

I'm not a coward, I'm strong because I have made myself this way. Standing opposite the two tributes from Nine can't threaten that, it can't threaten it because there are human lives that are ready for the taking, ready for the reaping. Walking some effortlessly, so aimlessly into the gardens where the shadows reign free over the grounds: they plant silhouettes in the fog, watching from the sidelines as they grow into the demons seen only in the worst of nightmares. We dance to the bitter tune of life and when the chord of death strikes, I don't stutter or flutter.

A wolf — I pounce for the prey in the absence of day because it is instinct. There is no shame in that, there should never be any shame that comes with that because it is natural. Womanly resilience stems from that savagery; I am not pulled aside by labels of selfishness or senselessness. Standing strong in my own skin is what will take me through to the end of the world, it is what will defy the odds. I know it, I have to know it, because there's no way I'm settling for other than life.

There's no way.

Zion and I stand as brother and sister in arms; we wear blood as war paint. When we hit against other humans, I can see by the look on Zion's face that it hurts him, and it hurts me that it hurts him and that there is probably nothing I could say to stop his heart from being wretched and mangled by the sight. Perhaps the only thing I can do is prevent emotional hurt from being played out physically; I stand in front of him like a mother to her child to protect him from the onslaught of the world. And to the world that watches from the skies with invisible eyes, I allow them to see a softer side. I lead the pack because that is my responsibility, a duty to protect that is innate.

The two who stand in our shadows desperately try to find the light but their efforts fall short; their weapons wound slightly and I look down at the blood dripping from my neck and that on my leg and feel nothing. Time is the only healer for the slashes, and the scars will then become points for story-time in the future. Scabs and stitches perhaps, are just bitches like me deserve.

And whilst no one is deserving of death — how sinister it would be to think that way — death has an insatiable hunger and it needs to be satisfied. Being slave to that satisfaction is okay with me, and if I can get death on my side, surely I'm onto a winner.

I have big death energy.

Death's reign doesn't just let up. It reigns for a reason.

[ cassia oretio d12f attacks kristian ognyanov d9m ; spiked blunt ]

Xrbw4XMYspiked blunt

[ block ]

[ accuracy reroll ]

spiked blunt

[ broken right arm +6.5 damage, +1 strength ]

spiked blunt�spiked blunt

Last Edit: Jul 25, 2018 17:44:46 GMT -5 by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]

L△LIA
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BOOM SH△KALAKA

(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 30, 2018 11:03:05 GMT -5 via mobile

Quote

Post by L△LIA on Jul 30, 2018 11:03:05 GMT -5

A heart lays raw and beaten upon Zion’s chest, pinned to his skin with the last laugh of his childhood innocence, the smile he wore last May when Rio discovered baby bunnies living beneath their porch, and his final hope that this is all a dream. This heart races with horror and fear - of the situation, of himself - and every panicked beat, beat, beat spurts blood across his bunny pajamas. It paints him in honesty, it paints him in weakness, it repaints him in strange brutality. Anyone who spares a moment to look at the boy and not the spear in his trembling hands could see the way he wears his body inside out.

He is vulnerable for the taking, a target so easy he doesn’t even have the armor of his own bones as protection, and even still they do not attack him. A sword swings out and his head tilts back instinctively to bear his throat in surrender. He hoped to die before this fight. He hoped to wake up from this nightmare or from this life, into anything else. It is this thought more than a true sense of morality that emphasizes how wrong it is for them to be attacking Cassia, for he and Cassia to be attacking them.

He wonders if he could plunge the spear down his own throat, swallowing it until it caught on the skin that now lines the inside of his bones. Maybe with enough force it could turn him right side out again. He could be like anyone else, wearing a tough hide to protect all of the fragility they swear is supposed to be kept hidden inside.

Zion’s lungs heave, clinging to his shoulders like a child riding piggyback for the first time. His stomach contemplates if it might be safer to scramble upward and hide in his armpit. His liver, his kidneys, and his bladder help to tie each other up with his intestines, thinking it could be their safety rope while Zion glances down and wonders if it could be his noose. The civil war of his body and mind cannot decide if it would be safer to live or to die, but if the question exists, so must an answer.

“I’m sorry!” He does not whimper it like a plea of sorrow, endlessly cried since the beginning; he screams it with resentment. The expression of it is ugly across his face and neither the pastel glitter nor the carefully applied velvet upon the tip of his nose can hide it. He hates them for making him participate in all of this, instead of everyone holding hands and waiting to be mauled by more acceptable monsters. He hates them for turning him inside out like this because now all the terrible things he always kept inside, bound to his persistent night terrors, have been turned out and let loose to seize control of him during daylight. He has not felt true hatred before, but he feels it now and it bleeds out from his open heart and onto his hands with every move he makes.

The tears that blind him become gruesome as his eyes turn bloodshot and all the skin of his face folds up upon itself, retracting in anguish until his teeth are bared with slobber leaking down his chin and snot oozing from his nose. In the Capitol Zion’s stylists watch him and think about how he begged them to make him pretty, so his mother might find it easier to look at him while he died, but there is no disguising moments like these. It does not matter. Ugly or pretty, his mother watches her son attack another mother’s child with a spear and her hands curl into fists buried in her hair, pulling and sobbing and pleading with angels that her sweet boy murders him. Lydia Lyons wants Kristian Ognyanov to die so she can have back what’s hers. All of them have to die. She knows her son well enough to see that killing Kristian would kill Zion just as well, but she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care, she doesn’t care. “I’m sorry,” she says kneeling before the television as if in prayer, willing the spear toward an undeserving target. “I’m sorry,” Zion echoes breathlessly, but only one of them means it.

[Zion attacks Kristian, spear]

_0qWJEXsspear
[3048 - miss]

[accuracy re-roll]
spear

[result]“spear”�spear

Last Edit: Jul 30, 2018 11:06:03 GMT -5 by aya

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flyss
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(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 30, 2018 11:49:43 GMT -5

Quote

Post by flyss on Jul 30, 2018 11:49:43 GMT -5

[googlefont=raleway]

"I'm sorry," the boy from five screams, chest heavin all heavy-like as he hoists his spear back to his ear, arm poised to strike Kristian. I can see the pain in his eyes as he tries to catch his breath, as his lungs rip themselves apart on the inhale just to be sewn back up on the exhale... this is stayin' alive to him, I think. It is for us, too.

"Ripred, don't let 'im do it," I plead under my breath, knuckles turnin' ghostly white on the hilt of my sword, but it doesn't feel like the almighty's doin' much listenin' right about now. Somewhere off in the great beyond, a child's voice screams out through the air, every bit of 'im obviously hurt, but nothin' happens.... nobody screams back, he doesn't yell out an accompanin' "amen" seconds later... and I think about how Ripred isn't doin' much listenin' for that kid, either. My heart aches.

I will myself not to look when the enemy spear goes slicin' through the fog, but I can't miss the way the metal gleans in its expulsion from hand. "Kristian--" I mumble frantically, reaching my fingers out as if just thinkin' could stop the spearhead's travel, but I'm too late.

The spearhead has already landed deep, deeply into--

the air?

The boy from five misses his mark, findin' no bit of my friend to sink his attack into, and it takes all of my energy not to go pumpin' my fists into the air like a kid who got what she wanted on Ratmas. I don't waste too much time, though, instead taking the boy's unexpected inaccuracy as opportunity to pull Kristian over my way.

As Five struggles to regain his balance, I ready myself to attack again, but find myself taken aback by the same boy shovin' his spear at my partner for the second time in seconds. Kristian barely has enough time to even process what's happenin' and move before his previous spot takes a spear to the gut.

Enough, I think, ready to throw my all behind my sword in attackin' these folks. I can feel the anger boilin' deep down in my stomach, both at myself for bein' forced into this situation and to the others for perpetuatin' it, but Zion-- I think that's his name, at least-- goes off sayin' sorry again just like he was earlier. My momma had taught me the importance of sorrys when I was real little, and I'm suddenly more torn than any gal in my position should ever be.

Is this right?

I think back home to my family, who's probably gathered around the TV watchin' me right now, maybe eatin' or maybe cryin', maybe hurtin' or maybe feelin' good 'cause of the way I'm fightin' hard. I also think about all the kids I left at school years ago, who are bound to be all ground up like I am by now, who will recognize my face up on the screens, sayin' how they used to know "that girl."

I'm just that girl now I realise. But I don't wanna be.

That girl doesn't stop when she hears someone say sorry, she keeps goin', keeps fightin' even though she's already won. That girl is tougher than the rest, rougher than the rest, but not in the way that anybody likes. That girl finds herself alone cause of the thing's she's done, even if she regrets 'em.

I wonder what makes me different from that girl, 'cause I'm over here attackin' some folks who don't want to be here as much as I don't. My blade sticks in the girl from 12's skin like a thorn, blood still flowin' now from her once-fresh wounds like tears, but this is life or death and I know it. I remind myself that the others started this, not us, yet I'm still left with a funny feelin' down in the pit of my stomach.

"It's okay to be sorry," I shout back while takin' a hesitant step forward. I think about attacking the boy from five instead of the girl, his vulnerability apparent, but there's somethin' in his eye that keeps my hands back. She's a wolf and he's a lamb; I'd be just as bad as the coyotes to stoop that low. "We didn't choose to be here, to be like this.

"But we're all sorry, y'know," I continue, hopin' that maybe somethin' I'm sayin' would get through and stop the fighin' somehow. "And it never changes nothin' to be that way.

"I just want ya to know that I'm sorry, too." My hands twist uncomfortably on the hilt of my sword, the beads of sweat running down my arms and onto my fingers, makin' it impossible to find the right grip. This here talkin' is a lot 'o words for me to say anyways, 'cause I usually don't speak that much, but all the same, I know it's got to be said. Fillin' momma's shoes one day is only one of my duties as a Hudson... I better start now, and I better do it well.

Ripred, I start, the edges of my mind seekin' for the assurance I'd needed since the beginnin'. Are you listenin'?

And I pull my hands back behind my head to swing, cause there was nothin' else to say. He was right there with me all along.

Not even that girl could change that.

[Petunia attacks Cassia with her sword.]

ucdDppoIsword

1093 -- Block -- 0.0 damage

(Sword)

[Accuracy]

sword

1124 -- Severed Right Leg at Hip -- 10 damage

(Sword)

sword�sword

Last Edit: Jul 30, 2018 20:23:27 GMT -5 by flyss

Credit: Shrimp

Credit: Avalon

"I could have been so much more than just Neptune.
I could have been a whole damn
galaxy."

thompson harvard - d2b - arc
Veteran Member

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Pronouns: he/him
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(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 30, 2018 13:51:45 GMT -5

Quote

Post by thompson harvard - d2b - arc on Jul 30, 2018 13:51:45 GMT -5

My heart felt like it was going to stop at any minute. It was rushing, pushing to get as much of my body in sync with it as possible. Similar to herding cats, you'll never be able to get my heart to return from it's position now. However, not similar to cats, I have no more life left in me. I do not have nine lives. I have one. I'll be damned if today isn't the last day I keep my one single life.

The boy from five speaks, and I only take his words with a light dust. A flash of heat that was there, and then gone.

{"I'm sorry."}

He says that as he raises his spear, poised and ready to land the final scar on my body that closes the book of my life, writes the last sentence in my biography. Apparently, the boy that killed me was sorry. I couldn't believe him. There was no way that he wasn't sorry- he shouldn't need to be. He was fighting for his friends life and succeeding.

What was there to be sorry for? It makes no sense to feel sorrow for the man you're killing.

Swipe, slash went the spear in the boy's hand, and both barely escaped my skin.

{"It's okay to be sorry, we didn't choose to be here, to be like this."}

thanks for the reminder, captain obvious.

I never understood why people tried making themselves look good or pure when it came to the killing part of the Games; you're killing people. You have to kill them to get further, why bother be sorry?

{"But we're all sorry, y'know, and it never changes nothin' to be that way."}

I'm not. I shouldn't be. Why would I be sorry about trying to save my own life, let alone getting killed in that exact same process? It's ridiculous, it makes no sense. Petunia took a step towards the girl we've been hacking away at, a hesitant one, as if she was trying to make a reasonable approach of sorts. Like she was scared of her.

{"I just want ya to know that I'm sorry, too."}

I felt like the world would then turn to me as Petunia swung her sword at the girl, an imaginary schling going through her leg as if it was cutting bread. The world turned to me, waiting for my response, for me to join in in sorrow.

But I wasn't sorry. Why say sorry to the person you're killing? It's like knocking down someone's home and saying you feel bad that they're homeless. I am not sorry, will never be sorry. My one life wasn't built to drown in empathy for those that get hurt by my job. It was built to live.

Taking a step and taking my swing, I was only hoping my axe felt the same way.

[ russian maniac ]

[attacks cassia, axe.]
Gz|Rkh2raxe
[Attack 11170 [Axe] is *SHALLOW CUT ON FOREHEAD*, +4.5 dmg]

axe

Last Edit: Jul 30, 2018 13:53:58 GMT -5 by thompson harvard - d2b - arc

D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]
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(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 30, 2018 15:57:04 GMT -5

Quote

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jul 30, 2018 15:57:04 GMT -5

Sorry is the word that spreads like a virus; it attacks the central nervous system like an indestructible sort of plague. There's no cure for falling victim to the word because you are the one who has made yourself susceptible. The word is one of the few that chimes tunes into your heartstrings; a sombre song of choral voices that whisper and hush sweet lullabies directly to a babe's ear.

Zion is the first to say it. And it doesn't surprise me because he's still so scared of himself despite everything that he has proved he is capable of. The strength within him suddenly burns out when he mutters that word, as if it has doused the flames that burn with a desire to be embraced. He stands in his spark and spits at it, watching it die and fade away. I stand beside him, dodging the fallout of his word because this is the thick of it — apologies have no place in such devastation, and even if they did, I'm not sure I could tell such a lie.

I'm an honest girl. I'm a brute, full-on and full throttle with force in my fibres like blood; I've made myself my own victim before and there is nothing worse than confining yourself within such a space where you beg for sympathy and receive nothing but a dirty glance from across the way. Becoming a victim is something I swore I'd never do again because not only does it require too much effort on my part, it is the wrong way of playing the game. Deceit and lies create a web and that is where you can get unstuck; it is so easy to watch a little white lie spiral into something larger than life, so large than it has a shadow than mimics death.

And next comes the girl from Nine. I figure she must be broken because whilst she may be a girl, she is nowhere near becoming a woman. There's that potential within her but it doesn't extend beyond her limbs; she is not at one with the Earth, not at one with the energy and aura surrounding her. Femininity isn't just about having a large heart and a soft mind, it is about pinpointing the reasons of your own fall and shaping them into the foundation of your rise. She swipes a leg from me, and there's blood everywhere, literally everywhere, but all I can do is stare at her. She isn't part of my sisterhood.

The naivety of muttering an apology is thrown into perspective when the boy from Nine remains silent. He still has his tongue, I know that, and part of me thinks that maybe, just maybe, he's in the same position as me. It takes one shot of a look to set the record straight. Nah, he's not a woman, nah, not even a man — just a boy lost in something that is too complex, too difficult to comprehend. His silence hits at my mind like the shot of a gun, and I feel the wound at my head immediately that I know, I know that this is what it feels like to be a monster.

Solid anger, red, turning purple with anger. A kaleidoscope of fury finds itself at home on my face, and I'm in no place to give it an eviction notice. I let it stay, I let it set up shop and get comfortable. I tell myself that I like it because I do, but I tell myself that I like it because it allows for me to start becoming content with the fact any day, any hour, any minute, any moment soon, I'll be a murderer.

I look up to the two from the ground, a sea of blood flowing from the gash at my hip. Live girl crawling; I punch and kick and scream because I'm not done, I'm not even close to being done.

I walk with death and I hold her hand; we reign together.

"Cry wolf, boy."

[ cassia oretio d12f attacks kristian ognyanov d9m ; spiked blunt ]

NjesOexOspiked blunt

[ broken left wrist +6.5 damage, +1 strength ]

spiked blunt

Last Edit: Jul 30, 2018 15:58:36 GMT -5 by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]

L△LIA
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BOOM SH△KALAKA

(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Jul 30, 2018 20:02:36 GMT -5

Quote

Post by L△LIA on Jul 30, 2018 20:02:36 GMT -5

[uses bandages on himself for -1]

[uses f/a on Cassia and helps her strap her battleaxe to her body with seaweed to improvise a peg leg]

[collects water]

[night terrors gonna terror, sorry babe]

[will getting naked make it less scary? y/n]

k3w3WFx_1-2

1-2

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flyss Career Tribute 646 POSTS last seen May 8, 2024 7:21:03 GMT -5 back for tha summer	(the safety of the trigger) \| shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Aug 3, 2018 8:29:53 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by flyss on Aug 3, 2018 8:29:53 GMT -5 [googlefont=raleway] Filler [Petunia flees the fight.] [More to come in maintenance.]
	Credit: Shrimp Credit: Avalon "I could have been so much more than just Neptune. I could have been a whole damn galaxy."

D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]
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(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4 Aug 3, 2018 16:00:17 GMT -5

Quote

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Aug 3, 2018 16:00:17 GMT -5

Sorry is the hardest word, it has to be, because even when the boy is dying, he vows to remain silent. And then reality sets in; the boy is dying. I am the one who last touched him, I am the one who willed and wished for a moment like this and now that I am here, I just feel nothing.

A soul like sand in my hands, it falls to the ground to fade into the dirt. The ground beneath us mirrors the murkiness of the river, holding prisoner lives that were once lived, lives that were meant to be lived but were lived too quickly, too soon because they encountered — me. Darkness swells in the dirt underneath our feet, and we tread harder than ever before because we are so determined to not slip like they have. We tread harder, we move faster because we are desperately trying to convince ourselves that our fate is not the same.

I look at the body. We inhabit the ground together; a girl with one less limb and a boy broken beyond repair. The girl runs before I can threaten to sink my teeth in, and so I am left to take death's rewards. Another axe, a needle and thread, a few bandages and a canteen. My eyes flicker to that one limb that isn't part of the whole anymore and for some reason, I don't think that the needle and thread will patch me back up.

But the axe is better. It is sturdy, strong, not too far of what I am. Zion helps me up and we are a brother and sister in literal arms, lowering our weapons to make way for comfort, stability and safety found within one another. The wound still hurts, it more than hurts, actually, but I numb myself to the pain because the world is unforgiving. Zion throws some seaweed at it; weaving it through my legs and over my shoulder, around my waist until, in time, it dries in the sun and provides the real support I need to stay upright.

I shake my head. I refuse to make myself a victim. Head up, eyes wide, we press onward. It is here that we flee — beyond that same river that mirrors my mind, that reflects the dirt beside it. I live with the weight of another life in my head: the boy from Nine's face etched into my own fibres which makes it impossible to forget. I did it, I did it, I really did it, I really went ahead and murdered someone and made myself a monster.

And, oh my life, when I think of it like that, it becomes scary. But perspective is what balances things out: kill or be killed. For once, it doesn't feel like I am born to die, rather born to fight. As if my purpose really is to defy expectations and go forth and conquer. And though this is what I've been telling myself from the get go: that I am a wolf, bitch, I am a woman. It feels realer now, it feels like it is my true reality.

The blood on my hands means something. It isn't a feeling of nothing, I was wrong, it's a feeling of freedom. I smile, sick as it is, I smile because there is proof. This alpha female has a kill under her belt and she leads the pack like a pride, with pride. I don't feel the need to apologise, not when I have become my own source of validation.

If I can kill, how can I die?

[ cassia flees ]

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(the safety of the trigger) | shadowless vs hiraeth, day 4

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jul 22, 2018 16:35:22 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Jul 23, 2018 16:21:49 GMT -5

Post by flyss on Jul 24, 2018 16:47:09 GMT -5

Post by thompson harvard - d2b - arc on Jul 25, 2018 16:38:38 GMT -5

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jul 25, 2018 17:30:53 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Jul 30, 2018 11:03:05 GMT -5

Post by flyss on Jul 30, 2018 11:49:43 GMT -5

Post by thompson harvard - d2b - arc on Jul 30, 2018 13:51:45 GMT -5

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Jul 30, 2018 15:57:04 GMT -5

Post by L△LIA on Jul 30, 2018 20:02:36 GMT -5

Post by flyss on Aug 3, 2018 8:29:53 GMT -5

Post by D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] on Aug 3, 2018 16:00:17 GMT -5

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