Return of the Ma-ggy {Robin vs floraspore ; day 3}

robin keeni, district 6

Robin felt the vine slack from his thigh. Limp, unmoving, the once gripping tendril lost all tenacity in a moment as Robin's desperate attack slid across its head. For a second, Robin thought he'd missed. It had looked as though he'd bypassed the skull altogether when he threw the machete down with a tired clamp. But the shrieking beast grew quiet very quickly. Where the Sheepish had clamored out in slow, clinging breaths, the Floraspore seemed to vanish all at once. The vines turned near-invisible in the grass as they lost their sentience. Robin found himself wondering if the encounter had even happened? Was it all a hallucination?

His hazel-brown eyes clung to the floating pollen strings as they flew around him. Yellow powder puffs created a dancing whirlwind, the fibers seeping into his eyes, his nose, his gashes. It'd been minutes since the battle had begun, and in that time, Robin had managed to ingest an unhealthy amount of spores. Paralytics, toxins. He knew it all. Yet as the redness peaked its ways to the corners of his eyes and as his bones grew wearier, it wasn't the spores he thought of - but sleep. Robin knew the mutts abilities, and yet he was tired. The fight had taken a lot out of him... his arms were sore, really sore, his thigh hurt, really hurt. He couldn't help but notice the grass seemed to offer a nice comfy pillow.

Sweet tufts of strawberry muffled over the bitter stench of skunk that exuded from the previous Floraspore. Peace seemed to return to the picnic fields. Flowers were blooming, inviting for a sniff. The picnic tables looked clean and polished, asking anyone to sit for a meal. Sparsed-out trees offered moments of relief from the humidity or cover for the rain. Mother Nature had promised a sweet oasis in return for survival and -

No. Blink. Robin shook his head in a furious spike, cranking his neck in a sudden jolt. In a thoughtless action, a moment of instinct, he slammed the open palm of his left hand across the clustered welts along his right forearm, shooting bolts of pain up his arm. Be present, he thought. "Be present," he muttered aloud. In a moment of vulnerability, he had found himself giving in to the wants of the poison. Give in. Robin could hear its beck and call as it echoed through his ringing ears, begging for him to sleep here, just for a moment.

A call to sleep was nothing more than a call to death. Two sisters who often traveled hand in hand both extended their deadly proposition. Not yet. Not yet. Soon. But not yet.

Robin dripped the drawstring bag from his left side, careful not to drag anything across his right arms injuries. The vial sat unbroken in the bottom, clear and labeled ' general antidote.' He gripped the cap desperately between his fist, unscrewing the lid and drawing the vial to his crusty lips. The antidote was the first liquid to graze his tongue since the morning he'd entered the arena. Despite the bitter taste of medicine, his body felt momentarily quenched for the serum. Robin noted to himself that tonight would have to be the night he drank his canteen. The dehydration was getting too hard to manage.

The antidote didn't work all at once. Robin found himself heaving still for the next several hours, the pollen embedded into his lungs. But the poison had managed to secrete its way out of his body pretty fast. For that, he was grateful. He knew that someone out there was keeping an eye out for him, knew what was coming, and was cheering him on. Robin couldn't ask for much more.



[robin big-time flees]
[f/a -3]
[n/t -5]
[5ft b -1]
[robin uses general antidote for le poison]