station72 | [mission: hyrypia] give me my scallop shell of quiet, my staff of faith to walk upon

Entry tags:

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

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 )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I. or you could not ( before / the sorting / messenger races )

( clarke griffin is picturesque discontent. she is tense, stiff shoulders, and tightly balled fists hidden beneath the folds of her costume; she is stern, thin lips, and hard, narrowed eyes, and outwardly radiating enough displeasure with the lackadaisical and questionably safe event that is about to take place that she could probably power a small town if it ran on grumpiness alone. naturally, unhappy with the proceedings and seeing nothing but risks every time she looks at the animatronic creatures they're meant to ride and wrangle, she's situated at the very front of the congregation; nearly straddling the edge of the competition pen.

if she had to put a name and face to the person she's most consumed with concern for right now, it would be rust. her obscured gaze keeps dragging towards his figure amidst the gryer, and for a good while her fears manifest as frustration; this was stupid and unnecessary, why in his constant state of superiority and apathy would he bother? clarke doesn't think too hard on her own question; she could parse the answer from the folds of his grey matter if she wanted to. the music and general exuberance is grating enough that instead she could focus on the general annoyances around her — the people crowding in too close, the screams and shouts, the spectacle.

there's no mindfulness that the crowd could be under as intense scrutiny as the riders; clarke puts no effort into maintaining the guise of lexa's stoic diplomatic advisor, and casts a few too many lingering glances in the direction of the swept manor between glaring at the elin like they've personally wronged her already. )

II. whispers PLEASE COULD YOU NOT ( elinmaster run )

( between the trials, john murphy tugs her away from the sidelines and instills some level of control to her mental faculties, patches up some of the holes in her rather weak defenses. and bellamy blake willingly poisons himself because that's just who he is and what he does. and now the love of her life is about to scale a mountain with a fake horse, so all in all, it's been a rough day. when clarke rejoins the festivities and hum of excitement, her mind is quieter — less unintentionally beating her displeasure into the minds of others, more micro-expressions of her fear; her preemptive grief if something were to go wrong. looking up at that cliff face and the canyon carved into its side, it is a long way down.

softer — less words, more the sensation of the perpetually worried: an aching jaw from grinding your teeth to hard, the spike in heart rate as the horn blows to signal the start of the race, the tight knot in her stomach as the riders disappear into the darkness of night and shadows alike, and the rough, almost crushing way she folds her arms over her chest, as if to ward off any future hurts if (when?) one of the nest falls; as if to hold in all those swirling thoughts to prevent them from escaping, distracting the participants. the sensation of teeth worrying at the inside of her cheek.

she is a little less intrusive with her thoughts, but still commands all the negative energy in the slowly calming crowd; again at the very front, and ready to vault the ropes at the first sign of trouble.

(if there is any sort of fuss about the competitor too sick to ride in the beginning, that decidedly isn't trouble. no, that elicits a sick sort of pride; a sigh, a slight moment of relief in which clarke can't help half-smiling at the rocks at her feet.) )

II. what you will !!!

( have at my vague, "come bother clarke" prompts for the first day of competition, or throw whatever you'd like at me! before everything, after everything, the next day if someone busted their knee and needs a makeshift bandaid — i'm easy, guys, and clarke is grumpy. )

[ Now Misato sees fragments of herself wherever she turns. The whole world is a series of mirrors reflecting herself back to her in various amputated, misshapen, off-colored form. Each condemn or condone her, feed her ravenous ego or become fuel for her self-loathing. But watching Clarke is like catching someone else's reflection on a passing storefront only to realize it's herself. It jars her that she didn't realize sooner, and it bothers her still that she can as easily refuse to see herself in it.

The unrestrained irritation at the world, at oneself, the misguided anger, the tension pulling each limb taut, the fear, it's all her, and yet from the outside she senses something uncorrupted in the girl. Maybe a figment of her imagination. Maybe wishful thinking. She finds she doesn't want to find out. It could change anyway, or she could ensure it becomes how she sees it now, the impossibility of changing another person's mind is a tiny hurdle to overcome. Speaking of. ]

Okay, think about it: are you mad at him or are you really mad at yourself for failing to stop him?

[ This is important. It's a question she asks herself everyday and the answer changes each minute. ]

( 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. )

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. ]

( 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? )

[ 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. )

( 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. )

[ 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. ]

( 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. )

[ 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? )

( 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. )

[ There is no logic to this. She was upset -- no, better to put the accurate words to describe this -- she was inconsolably jealous of the possibility that Kaji might grant his trust to a girl who reminds him of herself, who reminds her of herself, but now she is upset that Clarke would dare to shun this very possibility. As if it doesn't worth the world to her. As if she wouldn't bleed herself dry to prove her devotion. It is a strike against the way Misato has arranged a universe, someone telling her the sun revolves around the earth rather than otherwise. Her mind betrays this imbalance, the ground tilting beneath her feet.

Her anger doesn't come from a place of power, as anger rarely does. ]

( You're wrong. You can trust someone who doesn't trust you. )

[ How else can betrayal exist? In the useless accounting of love, she still finds herself wanting to trust less than him, wanting to love less, as if that might ensure her upper hand. Her power. Her invulnerability. ]

( What next? You'll say love has to be mutual to be real? ) [ She inhales, a dragon preparing her breath of fire. But the voice of her mind is cold, the bite of arctic winds slashing across a white wasteland. ] ( Did you tell Bellamy that? )

( betrayal. that's a good point, a solid point. would finn's massacre of innocent men and women have hurt less if she hadn't been so wrapped up in the fantasy that they were better than senseless murder? would lexa abandoning her outside the door inlaid in stone, on the side of a mountain, in the cold, wet, dreary night time been less of a crippling blow if she hadn't believed they were on the same side? would feeling sharp blades dig under her collar bone and knowing it was her mother wielding the scalpel cut any shallower if she didn't love her? )

( You shouldn't. ) ( quiet, groused. unhappy but superior, like an eyeroll. like that was obvious.

and oh love.

love feels like a weakness. and what did bellamy have to do with this? )

( It should be. ) ( clarke's temperment is cold and certain, but some of the stern backing shifts. she's confused about the seemingly sudden turn of conversation, but not willing to admit as much. ) ( Otherwise it's just pining. )

no subject

no subject

this is so late and i am so sorry

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

what are timely responses

we just don't know

i certainly don't ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject