[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

II

[aluminumandash]

[ Rust is calm; more than that he's settled, staring down a task that'll demand what it will of him.

He's coiling a rope, the movements so rhythmic as to be hypnotic. ] ( This is a win-win. ) [ Incredulity tints the words—he hadn't thought they'd be necessary. ]

( We succeed, we have a reputation to trade on. We fail, well, find yourself a shoulder to cry on or somebody to lord it over you.

The only thing can fuck this up is ego. ) [ He glances to Shiro, to the lone burst of color pinned among the grays and blacks of his robes. His attention half question, half challenge.

His hands keep on working the rope. ]

[isorropia]

( Or death. )

[The sentiment fills what had been a yawning silence from Siva'co's mind. He has had nothing to add to this point, seemingly content in his own preparations, his hands steady on the mount's saddle, carefully making minuscule adjustments to the stirrups that rest high on the mechanical creature's back. He tugs firmly at it, a last test before swinging himself up onto the Elin, robes fluttering out alongside his tucked legs, effortless.]

[shiro2hero]

(Win-win seems a little cocky to me.)

[But there's no real heat to the words. Thinking it's sealed or in the bag is ego, to him. He doesn't miss the glance at the little token on his robes, but also declines to comment -- save for the sense of a raised eyebrow.]

[And an incline of his head to Siva'co. Polite.]

(I say we go after them one by one, cut them off and lead them in faster that way. Any other plans?)

[aluminumandash]

( Seeing as how you're able to read my mind, Mr. Shirogane, I can only assume you're willfully mistaking my meaning. ) [ Likewise, no heat: Rust maintains a deliberate distance between his emotions and Shiro's. Hands off.

The shift to strategy would be seamless were it not for a nip of eagerness in his thoughts. A dinged-up memory, watching from wood bleachers as a pair of men on horseback—one in front, one behind—snared a steer. The air baked warm. ] ( It'd go quicker if we split up, rope one apiece, but that'll take coordination and a skill with a rope that frankly I don't have. ) [ Which is to say, unless the two of them think they can pick up the slack, he agrees with Shiro's more cautious approach.

Finally, he turns—so to speak—to Siva'co. ] ( You think someone might try something? ) [ There's urgency in the question, but no alarm. The crowd, all those people, reasserting itself in his consciousness. ]

[isorropia]

[Siva'co finds his grip on his reins, adjusting his thick-gloved hands a the two of them trade minor barbs, apparently disinterested- mentally disinterested. He tests the mount like a thing pure machine- as if from a manual, step followed by measured step. He doesn't turn his attentions to them again until that faded distant memory is visible. That he does, body and mind, his face is hidden entirely by the hooded shrouded cloak but the feeling of his eyes is almost palpable, mind brushing just the edge of that thought, not pressing- despite their earlier meeting.

In turn he presents instead an image, a thought- a plan, seen from the outside. Something of what they have already experienced- easy to picture the way the Elin moved, the way the mechanical targets would shift, how the riders would navigate the press of them. Three riders chase the first target, the one that looks the most difficult to wrangle. Once they have it- forcing distance between the others with the bodies of the Elin a rope or crook could snag it all three could lead it to the edge of the herd, at which point one of them should be able to control it alone on the final extraction to the pen, the other two free to return to cutting out the second target. Two seemed to work, a nod to Rust's memory. His own confidence in his ability to handle a single gryer once it was loosed from the herd. It is not an order, nothing hard edged about it's presentation. Once it is done- seamlessly- he turns his mind to the question.]

( The main parties will be cautious. They will not want to risk spoiling their chances so early in the negotiations- [A somewhat unfitting word, but it was functionally accurate] but that doesn't mean they will not risk it if they think the benefits outweigh the costs. I expect this will become more true as some begin to fall behind in their performances. I'm sure the Hyrypians aren't going to make their choice based on this game, however- ) [there's a brief flash of understanding- this war, how long it had lasted, how long they have spent jabbing out at each other for each victory. How much pride was on the line even in what should be a simple, meaningless competition-]

( Now I think they will be cautious, but I suspect that will change. As for the smaller parties, some may be willing to take the risk for a chance to win an ally or route an enemy or simply out of stupidity. I am sure the Hyrypians are equally aware of this, but caution is still advisable. )

[shiro2hero]

[A sense of hands held up. Of some kind of surrender and apology. And, you know, not letting himself be left with an odd mix of feelings at hearing someone use his actual name again after so long.] (I try not to read too far into peoples' heads.)

[But that's it. He's content to leave it there, with whatever response Rust might have. He doesn't have that kind of rope skill either, honestly. But if their... elder... here does, maybe they can collect the targets and he can rope them.]

[The idea presented is met with a nod. It seems like the best mix of two plans. Use the disadvantage of having one of them proficient with a rope to something more workable. He's game for it.]

[It's also good to hear an opinion, finally, on their goal. On the situation.]

(So try to win, but keep your guard up.) [He nods again. Toward the place they're meant to round up the targets.] (Chances of them doing it during the competition, as opposed to after?)

sorry if I infomodded knowing his last name, voltron is a mystery 2 me!

[aluminumandash]

[ Irritation, mounting disbelief—the petty emotions he'd cast aside in favor of preparing for the event—they gather like static, a shock waiting to happen. ] ( More of a skimmer, huh. ) [ You dumb fucking kid barely beneath the surface, there for Shiro to pick up on and prove himself a liar. A self-imposed handicap the very worst kind, brick-wall indifference to what's going on around you inimical to Rust's nature.

If Shiro's hands are raised, Rust's are washed clean—of him, his determined opacity. That it could prove a liability to the mission is a consideration for later.

He takes a cue from Siva'co and checks over his equipment, making minute, perhaps unnecessary adjustments, relaxing into the details. He replays the proposed plan—the first rider in Shiro's monochromes, the second Rust himself, in washed out yellow and orange. The end of it's left hanging, a silent question: are they all agreed?

No reason they can't do this. It's not exactly a feat of intellect.

After Siva'co contends with Shiro's question—Rust not too invested in the answer, Siva'co being a soldier rather than an oracle—he poses another. ] ( We can exchange memories. ) [ The statement tinged wry, the only acknowledgment that what he'd done before was less an exchange than a clawing attempt at extraction. ] ( What about— ) [ Muscle memory, he thinks, then lets words fall away, focuses on the familiar feel of knotting a rope, the surety of his hands. Knowledge that left calluses. ]

[isorropia]

[If there is a chance of him stepping mentally between the two of them, it seems slim. His thoughts fully removed from their back and forth, more focused on- just there, a scent in the wind, his chin tipping to the distant cliffs. Something stirring dirt, mouth parting to take in- nothing, through the veils and over the distance. The musty smell of sweat and the distinct scent of Rabadoceans- like damp leather.

He answers Shiro first with a mental shrug, clarifying with simple words-]( Or lose. It does not truly matter. )

[They weren't here to play Hyrypian games. They needed to participate enough to prove their genuine interest in the pilgrimage, enough not to draw the ire of their hosts or the suspicions of the rest. Anything beyond that was not crucial. If Rust's question, in light of that, seems extraneous, he doesn't seem to mind- it had other purposes than this one test.]

( Yes. No. You can learn the instinct of it, but your body doesn't know the motions. They be messy, less practiced. Attempting a difficult task you have never done before could cause injury- [The pale echo of a feeling, a muscle stretching long, a shoulder popping out of place, a weak ankle rolling. The issue of attempting something in a way meant for a different body than your own- more notable between them. Siva'co shifts his feet in the high boots, toes pressing wide against the sole of them. The feeling, each toe- three- spread wide, the catch of claws, the way he rests no weight on his heel- alien and out of body.] but yes. Some things. )

[His own careful balance, shoulders back- and his own discomfort in the saddle. He had grown competent, but he had less practice riding beasts than machines. The Elin were something in between.]

no worries at all!

[shiro2hero]

[It is a concern for later. Something to discuss when they're not on the edge of a competition. Something that might actually help, in some way. Even if the impression from Siva'co says otherwise. It's a conversation for later. Face to face. And verbal, if he has anything to say about it.]

[To the imagery, he nods, nudging his mount forward a few steps to make way for the others. Listening to the answer of memory and muscle conditioning. He'd thought maybe that's why riding with Aloy felt like it helped. It doesn't sound like it -- and he can't withhold the wince of sympathy at the remembered injury.]

[But... some things rings true. Echoes with the memory of riding behind her, trying to keep up, keep his balance. So maybe he wasn't wrong, after all.]

(Thank you, for assisting us,) [he tells the older Host. Squaring up his own shoulders in answer. Nodding forward.] (One rope, snag as many as we can that way, and go from there?)

[Is this the plan they'll take? There probably isn't much time left to debate.]

[aluminumandash]

( Makes sense. ) [ Rust's voice like breath caught in the throat, neither here nor there. He's jarred out of his body, reshaped into something strange and familiar at once. Awe briefly overrides his senses, his thoughts skitter: a last resort, the weight of a pistol and the sense of taking aim. The word “knack.”

His grip tightens; his Elin snorts in displeasure, stomps its feet. A handful of seconds pass before Rust leans down to stroke its neck. ] ( Mmmhmm. ) [ Half-aloud, an answer to Shiro and an attempt to calm his mount. ] ( You're gonna have to be flexible, alright? Plans turn to shit fast. )

[ Not a command, not even advice—a last-ditch attempt at making something stick. A feeling of futility—paralytic—as he says it. ]

[isorropia]

( It is agreed. )

[A brief burst of something- like confidence, like reassurance, a cheer, the necessary togetherness of actions taken as a team- and then Siva'co breaks the silence.]

Lets go.

[He doesn't waste time in turning his mount then, wheeling it about to get it's nose aimed squarely at one of the three gates- the distance between. Timing almost perfect- the Gryer all again gathered in the center of the fenced in pen and the crowds growing impatient. It would not be long at all before it was their turn to compete.]

[shiro2hero]

[Plans turn to shit fast. He knows that. He knows that very, very well. The last moment he'd seen in his world made that crystal clear. All the same, he straightens up, nodding under his disguise.]

(I know. I'm prepared.)

[The feeling from Siva'co earns an answering sort from him. We can do this. Like a talk in front of other faces, other people. Being strong for them.]

[He moves his mount to follow, into position for when the gates open.]