[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

[onemind]

[Well at least there's that. Mercifully, the Meradan replaces the thin little blade into the black box and pat his friend (or servant) on the shoulder, offering him a very cheerful 'Thank you for all the trouble,' before turning back to the two Carubauschians.

Welp.

He tosses the edge of his heavy cloak back with a clearly habitual flourish and undoes the multitude of buttons at his sleeves so he can effectively roll them.]

You know, I haven't done much fist fighting since I was an adolescent. I wasn't aware this was such a prevalent thing on the smaller outer worlds. No offense meant, of course. It's charming.

[In an old fashioned, blood sport kind of way.

Eventually though, he can stall no longer. Sleeves rolled well up past his tropically colored forearms, cloak reasonably out of the way, he widens his stance and puts up his fists.]

All right. I'm ready.

[wrackful]

[Agreement comes easy against Seviilia's instruction. Not touching the crazy magic swords is fine by him, and her having to leave them on the ground probably feeds more into the frame he's working. She does the fighting. He keeps his hands clean.

Hidden under the veil, the corner of his mouth tugs, grimly amused. since I was an adolescent is funny, being the adolescent stood in front of him. The rest would be easy to heap on the offence he'd taken to make this happen. But maybe later. In the moment, Murphy just lets himself enjoy the fact Seviilia's about to beat the guy to a pulp.]

[miscreant]

Charming.

[Her voice comes deadpan, a casual reminder that they've already insulted at least one Carbauschian party, and perhaps a second insult was not his wisest course of action.

There is no need to be fast, here, so she doesn't rush at her opponent. Instead, she closes the distance between them very deliberately. If the Meradan is fast, he might even get a hit in before Seviilia swings herself.

But when she swings, she swings twice and she swings hard, a sharp jab aimed at the meat of his chest (or his arm, if he chooses to guard) and a hook to his opposite shoulder. Its definitely enough power to drop a civilian unaccustomed to fighting of any sort, but any further attempts to hold herself back and this entire exercise would be useless.]

[deployed]

[ Any time Clarke denies she's tired, Bellamy just assumes it's not completely true. Even after a few months with the Nest and falling into more regular patterns of sleep, Bellamy still has moments where he just feels exhausted. Life on Earth seems to have ingrained that in him, and the lingering nightmares haven't helped. He can only assume it's something similar for Clarke but he doesn't press her on it. ]

You can cut it when we get back up to the Station.

[ Though Bellamy had barely thought of his hair. It would need to be cut eventually, of course, but there had been so many bigger things to worry about that he hadn't spent much time dwelling on cosmetic changes.

He closes his eyes to take a breath. The focus of their hands clasped together cedes to the memory of the egg hatching between him and Noctis, clamping their hands together. It had been a less enjoyable moment of hand-holding. ]

We got it on the last planet we visited. Cathaway and Prince couldn't tell us what it is, but it's been harmless so far.

[ "so far." ]

We named it Typhon.

[ After a massive Greek monster. Hopefully not a name their baby sprog will live up to. ]

[wrackful]

[Murphy rolls his eyes.]

( Yeah, cause you've never said the wrong thing at the wrong time. )

[But she'll probably say she hasn't. Or that, even if she had, she just decided it was the right thing anyway. Thankfully they're finally at the tent, and Murphy carries on helping her walk until he can set her down at her bedroll.]

Take your headwrap off. I need to check your eyes.

[Turning away, moving to grab his own pack from where he sleeps next to Bellamy.]

[adamance]

[It's a very good thing that they reach the tent lest Murphy find out how utterly correct he is about her mindset when it comes to being wrong. That isn't to say that Lexa doesn't own her mistakes.

She just doesn't own them in a place where anyone can see or hear what she has to say about them.

So, yes, it is a good thing. When she finally removes her headwrap, she gives Murphy a pointed expression, like she's been holding it in. But then she asks:]

What are you looking for?

[skaikru]

That's — ( adorable? appropriate? weird? ominous? ridiculous? probably ridiculous, the entire idea of a scaly, clingy pet-slash-baby seems a little out there, enough so that clarke has to lightly snort on the humor of it all. the only adjective she can land on is a rather uncertain: ) ...nice.

( there's a stretched moment of silence after, another gentle squeeze of his fingers and one last pet of bellamy's hair to effectively sweep it off his sweaty forehead. he's so, so warm, and clarke's insides are still twisted with a frustrated sort of worry because there's nothing she can do to help. but at least he's talking and coherent. small blessings. )

When I was younger, I really wanted a pet. ( a hazy memory is offered up in place of any elaboration: the metal paneled walls of the housing units on the ark, a younger version of herself who'd just learned to read from an elementary level digital document about a boy and his dog. she'd asked her father for one shortly after, and jake griffin's features had contorted into a genuine sort of sympathy for crushing her hopes when he'd told her that dogs were extinct. )

[skaikru]

( an oh-so flat, oh-so disbelieving — )

Thanks.

( sorry, misato. for as sincere as that attempt at comfort may have been, clarke isn't buying it; sees no benefit to bellamy laying sick in the tent because she sees no benefit in competing in these precarious looking challenges set forward by their hosts. the elin themselves seem to be inviting injury, and the most suspicious part of her has to wonder if that isn't somehow the point. next time, she'll tell him to wait, and they'll figure something better out.

there's a stretch of silence between them, almost long enough to feel guarded and unwelcoming. but even as clarke's eyes remained fixed on the competition ahead of them, her mind wanders. brushes against misato's, then tugs with a gentle sort of purpose. )

( Can I ask you something? )

[wille]

[ Petulant. Just the way she likes it?

Her fingers pause for the few beats she needs to reconcile Clarke's quip with her idea of herself, the way one casts a second glance to the mirror when it seems to move independent from one's body. A trick of the light. She resumes her lacing, finishing up with a firm tug on each boot, before standing up with a chuckle. ]

( That kind of prelude always means something unpleasant, right? )

[ She follows the girl's gaze to the competition, her mind is an outstretched hand, there for the taking. ]

( There's no stopping you anyway. )

[wrackful]

[She's shearing her walls away before they've even gotten inside the tent, and Murphy takes a moment to be thankful everyone's at the races. Doesn't work, it turns out, might have been unfair, because whatever she'd had in place had definitely been stemming a hell of a lot. He withdraws, a little, enough to make sure he isn't going to get caught in the tangles and eddies of what's pouring off her now.]

Yeah. Some warning would've been good, though. [As he pulls his headwrap and veil off, loosens the scarves from around his nose and mouth.] How were you doing it?

[Start again. If he knows what she was doing, maybe he can see the better way to come at it.]

[deployed]

[ A dog. Bellamy laughs sadly. He hadn't ever had room for imaginings like that. Maybe before Octavia there had been fleeting wishes for fanciful things, but Bellamy barely remembers that. His thoughts stray to that small room where his mother and he spent so much time incubating Octavia from the harsh reality of the Ark. It's a long moment before he continues speaking, following the thread of their conversation. ]

Octavia wanted a horse, for a while.

[ Among other things, Bellamy's mind whispers. But the memory of piggybacking her around their rooms surfaces anyway. Octavia had always dug her heels in to his stomach and clutched too tightly around his neck, but Bellamy had never minded. ]

I wasn't much of a substitute. But eventually she had Helios, so maybe someday...

[ But a dog wouldn't survive the Station. Bellamy remembers this before he finishes the sentence, and his gaze shifts from Clarke to Murphy and the little alien. ]

Well, maybe it'll like you.

[skaikru]

I buried it.

( it — her thoughts and memories, every unkind sentiment and most of her moments of weakness. buried — quite literally. shiro had been the first to offer guidance in terms of repressing her mind, shielding as he'd called it. he'd said some pictured clouds, some pictured space, some just plain walls. when she'd cast around for something solid and distracting enough to close herself off, clarke had landed on earth. on dirt.

freshly dug graves, bright green splashes of grass. twigs and bark and pebbles. but mostly just dirt.

dirt isn't solid. rain trickles through, roots spring forth. it hadn't been a good enough mental barrier, and feels painfully rudimentary now that she's unlearning the technique. still, when clarke tugs down the wrappings around her face, her mouth is set in a line just this side of defensive. )

I thought it was working. No one else mentioned it.

[skaikru]

( sick and feverish, in addition to as open as he always was — the more time she spent trying to wall herself off, the more clarke noticed that bellamy and a few others leaked — his memories play like a foggy movie just off to the side, in her peripheral vision. she gets the picture: an already small family unit room made even smaller with a teenager and a young girl running circles around their tired looking mother. it's a recollection colored in love, but clarke imagines if she picks at the stitching, there would be a wealth of unpleasant sensations behind the affection. she's already come to know how taxing those first sixteen years had been, on all of the blake's.

so out of some sort of respect for his privacy, and not wanting to agitate the wound that his octavia's absence, clarke tactfully sticks to talking about typhon. )

Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm really not going to mind if it doesn't.

( like, okay. once upon a time clarke griffin wanted a puppy, but childhood feels so, so far away now. and a big, scaly gecko was not a dog. typhon's little claws make her moderately uncomfortable. )

[skaikru]

( that's the sort of sassy deflection one comes to expect from a noncommital parent or teacher; from someone unwilling to delve into treacherous, emotionally weighted areas of conversation. it earns a slight sigh, barely a whisper of forced air through her nose. but misato isn't running away, and clarke presses on with purpose behind a question she'd (rather shockingly) hadn't thought to ask before this very moment. )

( Kaji. )

( short, one word. a name — not a question, but the man himself might be one, big question mark, even to those he was decidedly tethered to. )

( He's from your world? And you know him well? )

( more questions that are, again, not questions. facts stated with a high inflection at the end. clarke had pieced together the faint impression of the relationship during their time sharing a tent on hyrypia, and it hadn't been hard. there was heft to the way he thought about the other woman, a long-standing sort of intimacy. care. you remind me of someone — her, she's the someone. and while that brief interaction between the three of them had piqued her curiosity in the direction of katsuragi misato as well, there were a few arguably more important answers to glean before the two of them edged towards anything passing for familiarity. )

[skaikru]

( on some level, it just feels good to air her concerns out loud. to grouch and grump to a person, even one who stubbornly shook off her worry and didn't seem to be really listening. it's like finally letting out a breath you've been holding in, and makes it that much easier for clarke to put forth a soft whisper of a smile. to nod her head in agreement. )

You looked great out there. ( well, at least no one fell off the elin and broke something. that's great, right? her bar is pretty low in these conditions. ) You all did.

( it makes it so much easier to fall into the role of caring about one person, making sure that one person was safe, than trying to worry about the nest at large. and because she's the closest at hand, that person right now is asuka. )

Have you eaten?

[wille]

[ This should be expected as far as common denominators go, but the girl's forwardness takes her by surprise all the same. A bad habit, she harms when she is hurt. Her next words are sharpened, laced with intent, quick to counter. ]

( Shouldn't you know him better? )

[ Jealousy stems from insecurity and insecurity has little to no bearing on the worth of oneself and the subject caught in the middle. It is an arbitrary measure, and so a useless one. Her retort is equally useless, revealing the gaps in her defenses rather than dealing any damage, showing Clarke where exactly to aim to strike a fatal wound. What was it he had said? There is a river as wide as oceans between man and woman Between men. But perhaps not between minds to inextricably linked.

She squares her shoulders and frowns at the unfolding game before them. ]

( That's not what you want to ask. )

[ Likewise, a question posing as a statement. Go on. ]

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Just a quick pit stop back to the tent. I had something made for him to celebrate his victory.

[ Honestly, Sam is just making this up as he goes. It’s weird having to say things out loud for anyone in the crowd actually listening to their conversation, but Sam’s a little too paranoid to assume no one’s paying attention. ]

( Yeah, if you’re cool with that? I figured you’re probably the best chance we got at finding anything about it. )

[redheadcarrier]

Uh - not yet. I just finished.

[ And she's dusty and sweaty and covered in the usual muck one picks up after riding around and around and around on an Elin for half the day. Still, she's energetic - and apparently starving, since the last time she ate was breakfast. ]

Why? Is there food?

[ She is a growing teenager, after all. ]

[greentech]

( Sure. I need something to do, anyway. )

[skaikru]

( asuka is a pleasant distraction from watching the games in front of them, and perhaps a little selfishly, clarke allows herself to be hooked into the girl's peaked enthusiasm for food. it's easier to ignore, if only for a moment or two, that someone she loves is balanced precariously on top of a fake horse somewhere out there while she's standing uselessly on the sidelines when asuka's hungry and there's actually something clarke can do about it.

with a light snort that might have been a laugh, she's reaching out to gently grasp asuka's shoulder and start guiding them through the crowd, over towards where clarke last spotted a vendor with some slow roasting grey meat. )

There's so much food, ( she mutters almost conspiratorily. ) And dinner later, too. I'm sure that'll be a big affair.

[skaikru]

( the vehemence in misato's response hits home, each barbed word grating against clarke so abruptly she physically turns to blink at the other woman through their disguises. that surprise sours, however; that response answered none of her mundane questions, and allowed no easy segue into the meat of this casual interrogation. but misato all but dares her to press deeper, and clarke narrows her eyes. grinds her teeth for a moment. )

( Do you trust him? )

( flatly thought. the real question is — is he trustworthy? because on some unwanted level, she knows him well. the first time they spoke kaji peeled layers of himself away to expose the ease with which he lied; the ease with which he concealed himself, and it had left a terrible taste in the back of her throat. clarke doesn't ask is he dangerous, because she's asked herself that question several times over and found the answer to be no.

but then what was he? ( what are you, not who are you. )

shed some light, misato. )

[wille]

[ Misato may be an open book more often than not. Her emotions are laid bare on her face (now her frown deepens, duplicate lines marking the corners of her lips), her thoughts are clearly spoken out lest there be any doubt as to her decisions. But she is no fool when it comes to reading between another person's lines. Kaji's, for one and here, that Clarke feels the need to ask about trust must mean his mind remains as manifold and elusive as the masks he wears. That is, the masks have become the man. That the girl thinks to ask her about him implies something else entirely.

And it it this something else she grasps onto, the way she balls her fists as sternly as her mind's attention latches onto Clarke. If the girl would insist on doling out pointed questions like ultimatums, then she would present her own dose of fatalism. Here then, the answers like bitter pills shoved down her throat. ]

( I trust him above everyone else in this goddamn nest. )

[ But there's an echo to her words, something not fully formed. It is the gut-dropping sense of uncovering a foundation-altering lie, it is the feeling of tearing oneself inside out to believe this newfound revelation and to forgive the messenger. The truth is. The truth is. She withdraws most abruptly, without care for what it might do to Clarke. ]

( But you'll have to make up your own mind. The real question is, does he trust you? )

[redheadcarrier]

Around here? Yeah.

[ Asuka responds with a bit more cheeriness then the last time they talked. Apparently she's in a better mood, having actually won something for the day.She allows herself to be steered. Being treated to food is great, too. Even if there's not really any money at stake. She taps one foot into the dust and then rolls on. ]

They're always celebrating something. Which, I guess makes sense. It's a pilgrimage or whatever, but still - every night feels like a giant party sometimes.

[skaikru]

( the truth is, the truth is...

do you really?

the sentiment is left like a whisper, like what clarke's actually wheedling at is should you?, strung out like a taut string between the two of them. a string that snaps at the sudden, vicious way misato shut her off. slams the doors on the wave of conflicting anger and sneaking vulnerability. the unexpected disconnect has clarke reeling more than the seething words the other woman thinks; has her blinking and raising her eyebrows in a mask of surprise, but ultimately remaining the unaffected party here. )

( No. ) ( simple, honest, unbothered. ) ( I don't think he does, no. Trust has to be mutual. )

( and sure, there's the tug of the symbiote, the whisper of the importance of broodmates, and clarke might be a tad invested. might care that he's breathing, might be secretly relieved that he's not one of the ones out there, riding elin and risking injury. she might have begun to grow accustomed to the door in the back of her mind, the bridge between four psyches, and may lean into the connection without much resistance.

but trust was earned. and she and kaji haven't gotten that far. )

[skaikru]

( it only takes a few more steps to stumble upon a man selling food, and a few polite words exchanged for him to hand over two gristle dripping skewers. they smell delicious, but every time clarke encounters strange food, she thinks of chocolate cake; of sweets and delicacies meant to ply their trust. even if their native hosts have been nothing but accommodating, at most she nibbles her food at meals, and hands both sticks to asuka. )

Makes me wonder what it's going to be like when we get to the end of all this. ( an idle comment, mostly saying something for the sake of saying something.

she's scanning around the clearing, back at the games, looking for somewhere reasonably safe to eat without risking a flash of a jaw bone whilst trying to feed themselves under their veils. ) Do you want to go back to the tents? I have water and washcloths too.