[mission: hyrypia] give me my scallop shell of quiet, my staff of faith to walk upon

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: EVERYONE
WHERE: Hyrypia - The Graze
WHEN: DAY :013
SUMMARY: A day of competition begins, and Hosts put their newfound skills to the test.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

THE GRAZE
DAY :013

A MOURNFUL SOUND passes across the Graze in the early hours of the morning: the mingling drone of the wind coming up across the flatlands and funneling into the depths of the Finger Maze. It saws, a tired, hollow constant noise. Carried with it up through the Great Flat are maybe forty visitors carried by a variety of carts and wagons, automated and incredibly austentatious live mounts. Apparently the events of the day are drawing a crowd from the surrounding farms and homesteads on top of the various diplomatic envoys already in attendance.

After a brisk, light breakfast the short blare of a horn cuts across the encampment. It seems it's time to saddle up.



I. THE SIDELINES
A CHEER SWELLS up from the assemblage of Rabadoceans as a team successfully completes their event. On a nearby platform, musicians takes turns striking up a series of fast paced, sparkling tunes and the tang of roasting meat is heavy in the air. There's a sense of festival in this that quickly becomes lively as the Hyrypians' official pleasantries cede encourage the Meradan's cheerful, competitive shouting and the Descendants'' entertained clapping and smiling. There might even be a few smiles to be seen among the typically grim faced Carpathan diplomatic envoy.

Get something to eat. Talk to a stranger. Make friends. Sabotage a competing team. Most importantly: keep your eyes and ears open. For every moment you might spend machinating, someone (or something) else might be doing the same.

II. THE SORTING
THE SUN HAS FULLY RISEN by the time the first event is ready to begin. There has been a constant bustle up until this point, people meeting up and splitting off again, members of Envoy’s checking in with each other, carefully discussing their strategies- or laughing the challenges off as a game. Now, all of the competitors are gathered together to be given their tools- the ropes and crooks of the Gryer wranglers- even as the spectators begin to gather at the edges of the large pen, some standing at the fences, other on long staggered benches along the edges. There are a flags strung up all along the fences and large banners fly from the outermost posts of the pen. When it is nearly time the teams are split- each of the members led to a different point on the outside of the pen, to the gates that will set them loose upon the false gryer within.

When it is time for the Hosts to begin, the gates are again reset, the Gryer are all released from their holding pens, and the spectators have become no less raucous. They’re so loud it’s almost hard to hear the horn that calls from the holding pen, but the gates that spring open in front of the hosts are signal enough for them to begin. They are afforded just enough time to make their way fully into the pen before the three Gryer are lit, scattered through the herd and still milling about. The clock- or whatever passes for a clock- is ticking, and the faster they manage the task- if they manage it- the better.

When it is over, the crowd cheers, either way- energized by the competition and the strong grassy flavored drink that seems to improve every Rabadocean’s mood.

III. THE MESSENGER RACE
A SERIES OF FLAGS marks the route of the relay race that runs along the edge of the outermost cliff faces - not that it's necessary. Spectators are strung along the sidelines that it might be possible to run the race using only them as a guide for where to go. The course itself is studded with obstacles - logs and ditches, stacks of brush and at least a few imposing walls made from coral harvested out of the Finger Maze. The riders of each team are dispersed along the length of the course toward the finish line, quiet and lonely (if you disregard the forty or so other riders from competing teams in your company) and waiting in the midday heat for--

The short burst of a horn. The first string of Elin and riders, each in possession of a ceremonial scroll, launch forward across the starting line. Hopefully. What would be even better? If they keep all their riders in the process.

IV. THE ELINMASTER RUN
THE FINAL EVENT comes late - so late that the sun is already beginning to move towards the high horizon of the clifftops, leaving a cool purple cast across the landscape as the competitors and spectators alike are gathered at the yawning entrance of the isolated splinter of the Finger Maze. Unlike the other events, there is no seating, no rows, no stretches of banners or strings of flags. The environment doesn’t allow for it. Instead there are ropes separating the milling crowds from the riders. There are no gates and no strict starting point; rather, there is an area the width of the entrance and forty feet behind it that the racers may begin from. A large number are clustered near the very front - eager but clearly at extra risk, the metal and rubber flesh of the Elin automatons pressed close enough to crush. In the stillness of the near-evening air, the anticipation for this event is more subdued. More hushed. It's clear that the majority of the race will not be visible to spectators or judges. There will be only a small party waiting at the end of the course, ready in the clearing to mark places, and no witnesses before that.

The most senior members of House Basittia stand on either side of the entrance, protected by the ropes and flashy in their officiator-wear. When the horn is blown, sharp and with very little warning, it echoes down the length of the waiting canyon walls. It echoes strangely, broken only by the sound of metal hooves pounding forward into the maze and out of sight.

The first challenge is immediate - beyond the wide entrance the canyon begins to narrow dramatically. Those who have chosen the front of the pack will be forced to either get ahead or muscle their way through the others around them. Those that have chosen to stay further back will find that the distance between them and the next rider ahead of them narrows. Before there is much chance to adjust to the new positions, there is the first obstacle - a ditch, narrow but sudden, ready to take the legs out from under an Elin that fails to jump. From there the course begins in earnest. A number of paths split off from the main line, each with their own challenges. Coral branches fallen in the path, others arching just over rider’s heads. The course is full of switchbacks and sudden turns and in places the ground is made of pebbles that slide beneath the metallic hooves of the mechanical beasts. The course narrows in sections, barely wide enough to allow one rider to pass, and as the race stretches on fewer and fewer are able to continue. Some riders simply fall, others are knocked off, others foul their mounts and end up as new obstacles for those behind them.

By the time the end is in sight - a large open clearing, the far end of which has a simple stage where the judges wait - many racers have been unseated and countless others have simply fallen behind. But for those who make it to the end, there is a note in an ancient looking tome and a ribbon to be tied around their wrists to show that they have completed their trial. They will linger there in the winner’s circle until the last of the racers trickle in. Once that happens, they will be allowed at a much more sedate pace to make their way out of the canyon and into the awaiting cheering crowd - into the beginning of night and the lighting of the great braziers and flames, the scent of a well-earned meal that awaits them carried across the Graze by the mournful sigh of the wind.

V. BEFORE, AFTER, AND BETWEEN
THE COMPETITION stretches long, each individual challenge met by scores of Envoys eager to impress or simply eager for something to entertain themselves with. But the day is made far longer by the time between the competitions which is filled with talk, general chatter, and some good- and less good-natured betting - all lubricated by a constant stream of the cool grass drink that’s growing rapidly more popular as the sun’s heat increases. There's plenty to do- and plenty to enjoy between the events themselves. People will have little trouble finding things to keep busy with. And after the competition is said and done there is dinner (of course), the great dining tents pulled open and even more crowded than before with the additional local color. It’s those locals, and perhaps the camaraderie born of shared experience, which seems to help encourage some of the Envoys to intermingle more than they have before.

Of course, not everyone is in a good mood. Some of the participants didn't perform as well as others. Bruised egos are as abundant as bruised bodies among some envoys... a potentially volatile situation considering the close quarters they share with other Rabadoceans who clearly think very highly of their own performances.

---

((OOC Notes: This log covers the competition events of Day :013 and any related sideline activities. You can find a full breakdown of the events/a place for mini-event specific questions HERE. Sign-ups will remain open until the next event log goes live, however going forward please make sure to either join the individual event or have a full team selected for the team events. Please be aware that signing up late won't give you extra time to finish your thread to qualify for the finale event.

Have more generalized questions? Drop them on the MISSION: HYRYPIA OOC POST or get in touch with us on the Mod Contact page.))

NAVIGATION • GAME CALENDAR • MISSION: HYRYPIA • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

[redheadcarrier]

( I don't know. )

[ She doesn't really know Annie. Why does she get honesty? Maybe because Asuka senses something similar in her. ]

[sistershoggoth]

( Want to? )

[ Is really the more important question. ]

[redheadcarrier]

( Just because I want to doesn't mean I will. )

[ Someone is a bit pessimistic. ]

[sistershoggoth]

( Preaching to the choir. )

[ But you have to start somewhere. ]

[redheadcarrier]

( Great. I guess we can both be miserable, then. )

[sistershoggoth]

( Sounds like a plan. )

[wrackful]

( Yeah, well. Only takes one lucky shot. )

[But that's probably too close to the bone, and he knows it, the sense of that knowledge - almost like a dulled wince - echoing in the shadow of the words. But it's still true. If one of them got too good a blow on Lexa's head, Murphy could just be carting her back to the tents to give her somewhere more comfortable to not recover.]

[onemind]

[The silvery Meradan stares uncomprehendingly at the two of them - no, mostly Seviilia - for a moment, then turns mechanically to the fifth Meradan with the case.]

Well I can't say that's what I anticipated, but why not.

[There's a definitive faux-brightness to his tone that says 'what the fuck is happening what the fuck have I gotten myself into?' as he pops the latches on the black case and opens it. Inside is a saber and a sheath, each set into a fine field of blue velvet. The blade is clearly a display piece, but he lifts it from the case anyway. Gingerly.]

--You know, I'm not sure this is really meant for combat so if there's an alternative method to this that's more traditional for your peoples, I'd be perfectly happy to extend myself despite any disadvantage it might put me at.

[Ha ha ha, your guard is very large.]

[adamance]

[That wince, that acknowledgement, is enough to move the gears in her mind into place, shutting down any lightness or ease. Lexa has always treated every battle as if it might be her last, but she still bested them here.

But in saying that, she assumes he has another idea in mind—like he couldn't hold back his spite for too long, lest she forget it.]

( Are you here to help, or to remind me of my mortality? ) [And with that, the reminder that he lived while she died. He saw her death at the hands of someone who shaped her. Does he realize the power he has? She assumes so.]

[skaikru]

( I've tried to keep everything to myself. ) ( if thoughts can be mumbled, this is mumbled. appropriately shamed and half-heartedly defensive in the absence of murphy's conviction with his condescension, clarke keeps her gaze on the backs of his shoes as they gradually distance themselves from the chattering swarm of bodies. perhaps to showcase how diligently she's been attempting to build walls, there's a tangible air of picking up the pieces of her discontent; sucking it all up and bottling bitter emotions. plucking her worry, frustration, and embarrassment out of the air, shooshing them, forcing her features out of pinched lines. she's trying.

but clarke griffin has never been good at keeping her opinions to herself, verbally or mentally. and mental walls built out of shifting dirt were anything but solid. )

( So where do we start? )

( probably inside a tent, but someone's a little impatient ok )

this is so late and i am so sorry

[skaikru]

( it's easy to forget, to lock onto the present and pay little mind to those weak mental barriers she'd built of every-shifting dirt and grass. when focused on their companions, the world narrows, and clarke's mind leaks all her bitter, unkind sentiments without conscious acknowledgment or restraint. a bit later from now, she'll be told she was distracting. demanding attention with the cloud of negativity that hung over her head. but, at least right now, she'd guess misato has picked up on the hard line of her shoulders, or the sound of grinding teeth.

either way, the sudden intrusion into her unhappy place is jarring, and clarke blinks at the seemingly sudden apparition of the woman for a few moments before answering measuredly. )

I'm not mad.

( and it's easier still, to forget that — bound as they all were, as challenged as she is at lying — whatever forced conviction in her words carried little weight when accompanied with a flare of frustration, worry, and a hint of uselessness. mad or not, what could she do about it now other than stew? her mouth sets back into a hard line. )

I didn't try to stop him. ( hindsight is 20/20 and boy she wishes she had. )

what are timely responses

[skaikru]

( by all means, small angry child, burst her thought bubble. company is always something of a surprise when one isn't expecting it, staring off at the action for fear of missing something vital, but when the voice and the sense of another mind register — when clarke can immediately put a name to the lack of a visible face — there's a pleasant half-smile, and some extensive blinking once she realizes her mind is still open (thanks for the quality lessons, murphy).

there's the strained effort of concealing her emotions: plucking worry, concern, anxiety out of the air and bottling them back up. it's good practice, even if the impression has already been made. at least her voice is clear of sordid inflection when she answers, gesturing loosely toward the mouth of the canon. )

Someone could get hurt out there.

[skaikru]

( he knows, or at least should know, that no amount of reassurance or weakly voiced supplication would slow down clarke's roll once she was on a mission. especially not when someone was hurt, sick, or dying, and definately not when that hurt, sick, or dying person was bellamy. she's already shifted back to stand and rustle through the tent for water, medicine, a light snack to keep his strength up — anything. but the clammy fingers encircling her wrist...

well, that works like a charm. tethers her to him, freezes her in the spot, prevents any further movement. and after a beat spent warring with her instincts to help versus comfort, clarke settles. eases more comfortably onto her knees, brings up her other hand to close over his and squeeze. if the reassuring pressure is for his benefit or her own, it's a crapshoot. fine by tomorrow, bellamy insists, and she still doesn't believe him, but swallows and breathes through her nose, willing herself to accept that as fact. )

Then how can I help you until tomorrow?

( sleep is the instinctual recommendation, and now the guilt of having woken him in her flurry of worry starts to creep in. crap. worst doctor ever. )

[deployed]

[ The drive to help at any costs isn't unexpected. Bellamy shifts his grip and squeezes her hand back lightly, remembering what Lexa had told him earlier this night. It applies to Clarke as much as it does to him, which makes him chuckle to himself. ]

Stay with me.

[ It's the same entreaty he made to Murphy. He doesn't articulate how her presence, like Murphy's or the Darkling and Shiro, grounds him. It wards against the nausea and keeps him from tipping back into nightmares. His thumb rubs over her knuckles as he looks at her face. ]

Are you tired?

[ Clearly, Bellamy's decided on casual conversation. It's better than digging up any of the more raw topics between the pair of them. ]

we just don't know

[redheadcarrier]

Yeah? So what? People get hurt all the time.

[ She's being completely dismissive of the concern, even if it's one she's hared at times. She's affecting that "I don't care" attitude because it's easier than admitting that, yes, she does care and that the pain of others will wound her. It keeps it away a little bit longer. Preserves her from pain. She can feel a swirl of thoughts from Clarke and she shrugs. ]

It's what we're here to do, right?

[wille]

Saying something doesn't make it true.

[ An advice to her younger self, no, to herself.

Funny. She smiles, wry, the sense of it palpable despite the hoods that obscure their faces. These are the words she can picture someone else saying to her. Ritsuko, most usually. Kaji, in more words than she, with the sentences formed just so that he could never be accused of being anything but gentle. She crouches, busying herself with unlacing her boots to lace it up again tighter. ]

Anyway, it wouldn't be your fault. It might feel like it. But it isn't.

[ Another advice, lest the first one doesn't suffice. ]

[wrackful]

[Murphy's mouth tugs, dry, self-derisive. It hadn't taken much to destroy the more amicable atmosphere between him and Lexa, and of course it had been his mouth that had done it. He doesn't feel too bad about that, considering it was likely inevitable. Any other time and he would've done it intentionally.

On the topic, though:]

( Trust me, I'm just as happy not being reminded. )

[Lexa bleeding out black on the furs of a bed in Polis isn't a good memory. For all that Murphy dislikes Lexa and all of her assumptions of him, her attempts to get him to do what she wants, he's already seen far too many people die. He doesn't need one repeating on him.]

[wrackful]

We prefer unarmed.

[Almost immediate - though carefully not too immediate. But it's practically a relief that the Meradan's even raised it as an issue, and Murphy's eyes flick to the blades on Seviilia's back. He hasn't, at any point, considered himself actually in charge of her in this game of guard and... whatever important thing he's pretending to be. But right now the need for control of the situation is heavily present, and if he has any hold on what Seviilia does, he isn't ready to let her loose yet.]

( Lose the swords. And don't kill him. You'll scare them too much, and I won't be able to make this happen again if we need it. )

[Part of him already believes they will. Either they'll be here too long, or she'll use herself up somehow, or something will happen. It's practically instinct, to expect the worse.]

[adamance]

( Then take care with your words. ) [Given his cleverness and presumptions, Lexa has a hard time believing that he doesn't want to be reminded—or to remind her, for that matter. Her words come across like an order, a demand, but she means it sincerely.

Right now, it feels as if he weaponizes everything against her. Perhaps the feeling is mutual.

But she would like to avoid that specific reminder.]

[wrackful]

[He can feel her pulling in. Fractured, slow, taking it piece by piece instead of just dealing with the whole. Maybe that was how it worked for her, her view of herself and her mind. When he'd started this, suggesting it to her the night of the play, he'd thought it'd be as simple as just showing her what she did. Now, about to embark on the lesson itself, he realises he isn't sure he knows how to teach.]

( From the bottom. Whatever you've been doing doesn't work, so you need to drop it. Start again. )

[That's simple enough. Obvious enough. Hopefully sounds certain enough, too, as they pass down into the spread of the camp.]

[skaikru]

( start again. she'd really thought there had been progress here; had noted that her mind didn't seem to spill and slap about particularly visceral memories for others to pry. it's different between her broodmates, like they're knots pulled tighter the harder they struggle to free from each other, but at least among the rest of the nest, well... no one's brought up mount weather, despite how often clarke is reminded of the parallels down on hyrypia.

objectively, she reasons, it could just be a backhanded blessing. she's so wrapped up in lexa — living, breathing — and in bellamy, a solid presence at her side as always. and murphy, who she doubts time, space, and interdimensional world hopping could change. with familiar faces abound, it's easier to let relief course through her veins instead of rampant anxiety.

there's a slight air of frustration, a huff. the last stretch of their walk consists of clarke's thin pressed lips, and the sensation of shaking her head, like that would rid her of the permeable barriers that she'd clung to thus far. that hyperfocus of earth, individual blades of grass, and the flicker of the campfire start to melt, but nothing springs up to take their place. that tension, worry, poorly buttoned fear of injury over the races starts to overflow by the time they're stepping into otherwise deserted sleeping quarters.

like this? she thinks to ask, the question an inaudible ghost between them as clarke kicks dust from her shoes by the entrance. )

i certainly don't ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[skaikru]

( that neat little bottle isn't entirely solid. )

We're not here to die for the entertainment of others.

( it's a fast and immediate response, a bit louder and bit angrier than the conversation requires. clarke is suddenly and painfully aware that they're surrounded by other people, sandwiched in among excitable aliens well within personal bubble area, let alone earshot, and that they're not conversing in their heads. that feels like a mistake, and for a moment she's braced. waits for someone to round on them with suspicion; steels the diplomatic facade despite wanting nothing more than to scream at the competitors from the nest to get back here.

the world doesn't implode. the moment passes. clarke turns her head to look at asuka, attention focused like she could look the girl up and down and see any potential injuries underneath the layers of clothing. casually: )

How was your event?

[redheadcarrier]

[ Asuka waits for the anger to simmer, biting her own tongue. Of course they're here to get hurt. It's part of what they do. Getting hurt is just part of the job. It happens. Complaining about it won't change anything. Even if she complains all the time that doesn't mean she tolerates it in other people. Which is a bit hypocritical, but Asuka can be a hypocrite. ]

It was fine.

[ She puffs up a little, in fact. ]

We did great!

[skaikru]

( is she tired? there's a huff of a laugh, forced humor at what clarke deems an absolutely ridiculous question. she wasn't the one who'd willingly poisoned herself and was now dealing with the after-effects, was she? with a shake of her head, and a uh-uh in the back of her throat, she settles in more firmly at his side, squeezes his fingers back lightly before reaching to brush a few sweaty strands of hair out of his eyes.

his hair, she belatedly realizes. however long he's been with the nest has it grown longer than she's ever seen him sporting, and nearly two weeks under their wrappings has prevented her from noticing. idly twiddling the ends of a damp curl, ) You need a haircut.

( but that's something trivial that could wait until he felt better; until they were off this planet. casting around for a better conversational topic, clarke latches onto ooze baby, the strange reptilian pet she'd noticed before, but never really noticed. it's been there since day one, and now feels like the appropriate time to ask about him. )

You know, you never told me where your lizard-thing came from.

[miscreant]

[There is some obvious irritation from Seviilia when Murphy asks her to hold back, but even she has the piece of mind to know that he was the one who had pulled the strings to see this happen. So, slowly, she undoes the bindings holding the swords at her back and rests them aside.]

( Do not let anyone touch them. Yourself included. )

[Not because she didn't think him capable of wielding a blade, but because there was no guarantee they wouldn't make him or anyone else immediately ill.

The pathetic excuse for a sword the Meradan holds does not frighten her, but perhaps unarmed would be better. If she dispatched him too easily without visible damage from the blade, perhaps it would look suspicious.

Once the swords are set down, Seviilia turns and pulls her fists up.]