[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

[shri]

[ And by instinct a need she cannot place, cannot let herself remember most days happening - the want of contact. The need to be part and not separate. As he reaches for her, she guides him the rest of the way, and yes - there are a lot of questions. From him, from her. A lot of things that require knowing between them but right now, she guides his hand to the curl of her cheek. To set it against her as she takes deeper, slower breaths in the effort to soothe something. ]

I do not know.

[ And in the moment his skin broaches hers, it all becomes clear - she doesn't know, and as she is, pressed back and contained as she has to be here, her back is against a wall that comes down to what always concerns her - the others, their safety, the need to curl over and protect, not herself, but all those around her. ]

One moment, I felt glad, joy at racing and doing well - to what to spread that happiness. It would serve our purposes. Then - nothing.

[ It's empty and she knows, not her. ]

[perroquet]

[ His hand cups gently around her cheek, calloused fingers rough against smooth skin. ]

I felt it. Or rather, I felt you feeling it-

[ It's confusing. Sometimes he's so certain of the edge dividing his feelings and what he senses from others, but when it comes to brood that edge is harder to identify. He is as puzzled as she over what happened, and that urge for contact is shared. Perhaps it originates from him after all. Touch is one of the best ways he knows how to communicate comfort.

Gildor slowly kneels, and it's not that he kneels before a queen. He kneels to be closer to her and begin to provide that comfort in the hopes she will begin to feel again. ]

Here, hand me the wash cloth.

[ He'll start by washing her back. ]

[shri]

[ A plain warm indulgence, one she knows she should not indulge. She has no place in such wallowing, such simple graces, her body is too bent out of shape to not how to take gracefully anymore. ]

I have no gift with these walls we are meant to construct around ourselves.

[ It's as close as she can get to apologising. The settlement of her eyes over him, watching him closer and the baited breath that hitches to the feeling of being near to him and the completion that is. Of being so near to brood in such a way.

She does not have those walls either. ]

I do not expect you too...

[ A hesitation. She knows how she is, how it seems, between his position and hers, to ever expect and if she has made anything clear since she had arrived, being a Queen meant something far different than being waited on hand and foot. She did not have a want of that attention. Not even because she thinks he does it for that, but she simply must always deny that expression. ]

[perroquet]

I do not expect you to expect me to.

[ The offer remains, because he isn't doing this out of respect for her title. He simply wishes to comfort a broodmate who is in this moment struggling, and he wants this whether the symbiote tells him he wants it or not. At least, that is what he tells himself. It's confusing, but this is easier than questioning each of their roles - hers, his, or the little buggers in their brains making them feel all that they feel together.

Gildor's hand remains outstretched, palm open in front of her, unwavering. ]

[shri]

[ She nods - and that doesn't mean much to him does it, so she guides his hand instead, over her shoulder, and no doubt, there he can't help feel the scars of the battles she has dragged herself through, belly low stubbornness to go forward without understanding of know what it means to step backwards.

This is no different. As she slips his hand over to where it's comfortable. ] As you wish, then.

[ She could want no more than that, instead, it falls away, all of it. Walls and the press back she puts between everyone. Her shoulders drop, her hands slip from his to let him roam as he will - he, after all, might not be able to see, but he certainly seems to be able to understand what was going on. ]

[perroquet]

[ Finally she relinquishes the washcloth to his hand, cool water dripping from it. She guides him over the scars on her shoulders, and he drags the cloth with her motion, unflinching. He might not have expected to feel the remnants of battle scars, but then she has broken his every expectation of what a queen is.

And she continues to.

With her walls down, he begins the work of washing her back. Sweat piles up on the skin when they wear such thick robes in the desert, and grows even worse after physical exertion. He rings the cloth out and refills it often, brushing the thick sheet of her hair aside to gently scrape down her back in long motions. It's quiet, save for the droplets of water, and the music he fills between their shared headspace.

Because if music cannot make her regain emotion again, what else will? ]

[shri]

[ In time or place otherwise none of this would be possible, her pride and her sheer refusal against any of this - comfort or closeness outside of so very few - made it impossible.

But in the lack of care she has right now, the touch of his fingers are their own argument. The swell of music like rock pool wells, bubbling up and up in a silence so profound herself she cannot remember ever being such. Like she is no more than a bowl, waiting for the overflow to show purpose. Her face turns, her eyes close and she turns into the crook of his neck with warm slow breaths. The settle of her hand is flat to his chest. When he prompts, she moves, unspoken explanation as she extends against him. Her hair trickling dark and wet, splashing water in a measured drip, drip, drip. Kinder than blood, soft and staining like the holy rivers she had grown up splashing divinity about in.

And when at last music and sensation give grace to the first real sensation of herself she has since this began, she manages only simply Gildor and it is her own, and it is enough. ]

[perroquet]

[ She leans on him as he works, and for a moment he's startled. Not in that it's improper, it's just - her hair is wet, and when you can't see where water is coming from, it's startling. It makes him laugh lightly through his nose, and his mind nearly slips up on the piano keys in his head. He lets out a calming hush and he moves from her back to her neck, shifting her hair from one shoulder to the other with the upmost care.

He'll keep the mental music playing for her as long as she needs, because he truly does believe in it's power to return her to her senses. It makes the task of repeatedly wringing the cloth and washing the dirt from her skin pass by more pleasantly, too. Even when he finally feels that spark of herself returning, he doesn't stop mentally playing or washing. Just smiles to himself and wrings the cloth out under her chin, letting the water drip down his arms and her chest as he gently pushes with his mind. ]

(There you are.)

[ He drapes the damp cloth over her shoulders and gently places his hands at the sides of her temples. From there he runs his fingers back, then forward, back, forward - dragging them over her scalp to massage her head. It is something he remembers long ago from a loved one, and it's hard to keep the memory down. But his concern for her in the present outweighs the irrelevancies of the past easily enough, and his mind remains a pool of calm, of darkness, of music - all for her. ]

[shri]

[ She stretches in that state that the only purpose is function to form, extends where he prompts, along the length of her neck as she rolls her head back, the curl of her spine where she settles herself a little apart from him so she can guiltlessly - and isn't that something. Where her self comes back, it does it by trickle and she cannot find a reason not to enjoy it when his fingers settle to her hair. Holding onto the front of his lapels as she bends happily into it. It's been so long, that she's had any of this returned to her. Somewhere between Gangadhar when they shared the night together, and her ladies readily her for a morning, she undoes her herself in memory and comfort she normally cannot accept:

With a sigh and the slip closed of her eyes, she is then only capable of little, but she is utter in her contentment. ]

( There I am. )

[ It's a hollow little laugh, but sincere at least. ]

[perroquet]

[ He's glad for that sincerity, but continues to hush her calmly and massage the skin under her heavy hair. Whatever caused this, he doesn't expect her to return to her senses quickly, and he's fine with waiting patiently. Just as long as she returns in the right way, without doing anything either of them might regret. She grabs at his collar, and he slides his fingers away from massaging to hold her there. To ease her off. ]

(Easy. Let us not be hasty in this-)

[ Even the tempo of his mental song slows as he gently releases himself from her grasp. He stands, but only to move around to her backside, guiding himself with a hand on her shoulder. From there he settles down again to rub her neck and shoulders. ]

Sorry for the calloused hands, and if I'm... clumsy. It's been a while.

[ Since he's had the opportunity to provide this sort of intimate comfort to another. While she opens herself to the memories of royal days past, of taking comfort in her ladies, Gildor's mind remains pointedly focused on his music - and walled in it's darkness. ]

[shri]

[ The only answer really that matter is to reach up with her own hands as his set to her shoulders. Calloused is half of it. There are cuts and knuckles that stay even from her youth. These hands are not a ladies hands, these hands are a soldiers, and they are beaten and hardened to every edge. Smooth, perhaps, for their rough work, as anything did become smooth when sanded down. But if they had ever been soft in such a day past, it was not for some time.

She doesn't still seem to summon up enough to care about it anyway. ]

Anyone who might object otherwise to that is long dead. [ Normally, that might be grief stained words, a choked up heat. The thread inhale of smoke she takes in every breath. ] Your hands serve me fine.

[ Even if the words seem wrong, the thrum of the symbiote that acts like these hands had always been right as she slides across the back of his knuckles like they are luxury as fine as silk. A happy warm breath there before she lets them sink back into her lap. ]

[perroquet]

[ She reaches up to take his hands in hers, interrupting the massage to show him the tactile crevices that cuts and claws have left over her skin. He takes them in with concern he's aware isn't needed, as it's all in the past. The wounds have healed and she is rougher for it, not just on the outside. Though right now in her emotionally drained state, it's difficult to tell just how calloused her soul has become. He listens to her speak with little care.

She then slides her hands away again, but he catches one. Holds it gently, and lifts it back to her shoulder. He leans in close, hovering beside her ear and speaking lowly, his tone a mix of playful and perfectly serious- ]

My hands do not serve you, Rani. They are given willingly.

[ He bends his head down a little further, so she can feel his breath over the back of her hand. His lips barely brush the tips of her knuckles, as if he's about to kiss her in an oath of fealty, but no. His voice drops an octave lower as he whispers- ] Do not forget that.

[ He gives his service as willingly at the symbiote will allow him to, at least - and not just to her, but to the Nest as a whole. He's compelled by the symbiote, but he likes to think he would still be there for her... or that's what it likes him to think.

He straights back up and the music in his mind grows a little louder, drowning those thoughts. Her hand slides from his again as he sets back to work on her rubbing her shoulders, simply and slowly. ]

[shri]

[ The shiver comes in reaction, the warm heat of his words on her water cooled skin. Not so much an emotional tug of wanting. But physical ache, a craving. She rolls her shoulders back but - even so she asks for nothing else. Just his fingers into old, tired muscles.

What a thing to return first, this tiredness, without hope. This flat line. A heartbeat, given like a consolation prize. Her eyes open, unable to close. She never quite learned to turn her face away. Doesn't completely now, either, watching him over her shoulder in a silence of any of her usual cutting commentary, any observation. Just her, watching him. Just her slow breaths. The harsh breath when his hands work to sore points. Old scars. New griefs. A haze of returning feeling - that the one after the tired, is not hope, kept in that same steady gaze through the damp tangle of her hair.

So simple a thing, but - it comes plain with another sigh. Thank you. ]